


The Night Pieces

by 999blackflowers, wellhereweare



Series: 1920s Supervillain AU [2]
Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: 1920s Supervillain AU, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Extremely Underage, Further Trigger Warnings Within, Graphic Sex, Hershel Layton But A Monster, Hershel Spoils Luke Relentlessly Except When He Doesn't, Jealousy, M/M, Malignant Grief, Manipulation, Minor Character Death, Murder, Possessive Behavior, Torture, Underage Sex, Unhealthy But Happy Ending, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:08:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 15
Words: 60,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24122620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/999blackflowers/pseuds/999blackflowers, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wellhereweare/pseuds/wellhereweare
Summary: The day Claire died, Hershel Layton decided that instead of being the sort of gentleman that would make her proud, he would find a way to bring her back by any means necessary. After almost a decade, he has all he needs, but the price for it might be dear, his tiny lover Luke Triton. 1920s Alternate Universe with Superheroes/villains
Relationships: Hershel Layton/Luke Triton, Past Randall Ascot/Hershel Layton, past Claire/Hershel Layton
Series: 1920s Supervillain AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1717498
Comments: 58
Kudos: 19





	1. Liebestod

**Author's Note:**

> a/n from wellhereweare: Between 9's fic and finding out I murdered Der Sandmann by accident, I decided to finally write the proper fic. It's planned to the end, so it will be finished, but it's not all ready to be posted unfortunately. It's set in a universe where the mask cursed Randall and Hershel ala 9's timeline, but it's aesthetically the 20's because I like it.  
> I just want to take a moment to point out there are going to be maybe 3 people in this who aren't monsters so it's going to get unpleasant.
> 
> a/n from 999blackflowers: Hello, I primarily edited this fic/directed/herded well to write this as well as providing counsel/direction/ideas and wrote some small portions when well got stuck on certain portions. Hope you enjoy! Please leave a comment or Kudos if you liked. 
> 
> ADDITIONAL NOTE: It's been brought to my attention that some of the hits are spite reads, and I would like you to consider that reading things that you know will make you upset for the purpose of being upset is a kind of self harm. I think it would be best if you protected yourself from content that upsets you this much instead, because while we may view fiction very differently, there are people who love and would worry for you
> 
> Chapter 1 Trigger Warnings for:  
> Description of Hypothetical Torture  
> Death, both in passing and described in-depth (It's an ugly death as well)  
> Possessiveness  
> Plotting the Potential Death of Someone Who Loves and Trusts You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hershel weighs his options.
> 
> Luke is in the next chapter, promise!

Randall never knocked, but as Hershel could hear the man complaining from his office, this visit, at least, would not be a surprise. He didn’t know what had Randall so irritated this time, but Hershel was beginning to suspect the only things the man enjoyed anymore were murder and being a menace.

“-And the goddamn dog bit me.” Randall finished, wrenching the door open wide and slamming it behind him, visibly fuming and dripping with blood. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I’m your employer, and I can have you killed by nightfall,” Hershel said blandly. “If you get blood on my persian rug, I may yet.”

“Sometimes, I lull myself to sleep with the vision of hanging you on a meat hook and splitting you down the middle so your guts ooze out onto the floor. When I'm in a particularly bad mood, I use them to choke you the rest of the way to death.” 

Hershel smiled slightly at him, waving for him to continue. The scowl on Randall’s face darkened, but he knew the man far too well to fall for an intimidation play. 

Their romance died years ago, but since their reunion, a sort of understanding had settled between them. Randall would complain and do what was asked of him, and Hershel gave him a semblance of a human life without censuring Randall’s urges.

“You may as well have given me an old Christmas card for all the good your files did,” He snapped. Hershel's good humor fled. “He had a guard with an automatic, Hershel. You’re supposed to know this shit. He could have turned me into a blood smear.” 

“I’m sorry, Randall. I truly am,” He said, solemn. In this business, mistakes like that were deadly. He’d lost the man once, and it had destroyed him. It had destroyed Randall, too, in a different way. Neither of them were the people they’d been when they were in love. “It’s no excuse, but I’ve been busy lately. I didn’t give it the attention I should have. You’ve been talking about a village in the mountains, how about the week after next?” 

“Cutting it a little close, aren’t you Hershel?” Randall asked, picking up a rune etched gem from Hershel’s mahogany desk, well aware he shouldn’t be touching it. An unfortunate habit he’d kept from their adolescence, Hershel was usually more charmed by the few habits the man retained, even exasperating ones. Today he didn't have the patience. He pointed at the desk until the man sneered and put it back. 

“I still have time,” He said sharply, aware every moment bickering was one not spent searching. “I am busy with it, in fact, please leave.”

“What are you going to find in four-” Randall checked his watch dramatically as if they weren't perfectly aware of how much time remained. “Excuse me, 3 days and 22 hours that you haven’t in _eight fucking years?_ ” Hershel flinched in his seat as if struck, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

“I have to try.” 

He opened his eyes to see that Randall had removed his glasses to press his fingers into his eyes. 

“You’re fucked up, Hershel. This whole situation is, and it’s not something I want to deal with but.” He slid the glasses back on and met Hershel’s gaze. He has beautiful eyes, blade sharp even as teens. “You haven’t been out of this office for more than an hour in days. At this rate, that kid’s going to die knowing you didn’t actually love him.”

A white hot rage welled up in his chest, clinging and burning like molten metal but Randall kept talking, not noticing or more likely unbothered. 

"It's no skin off _my_ nose, I can’t tell you who not to kill, but you’ll be completely insufferable for… Ever, probably, based on this bullshit.” Randall gestured nonchalantly at the desk, piled with notes on candidates he'd tested as a ritual conduit, and at the walls of artifacts, an interest that had once been his own. 

“ _I am not losing anyone!_ ” Hershel hissed. The man looked startled, edges softening. “I can’t do it, Randall. I can’t.” His throat closed as the world blurred, and he looked away. They sat in silence for a moment, listening to Hershel’s heavy breathing slow. 

“Hershel,” Randall finally said, voice gentler than he’s heard in years. “We both know you don’t have a choice. It’s going to be one or the other. Choose and make the best of it.” He stood and straightened his uniform. Hershel could see the man Randall had become slip into the place of the lover and friend he’d once been. “At least stop making it everyone else’s problem.”

With that, he left Hershel alone. It is, Hershel thought a little hysterically, not at all a new sensation.

Alone. He sat back and found himself staring at the painted ceiling. That really is a beautiful chandelier, he thought inanely. The sound of the chair being shoving back when he stood abruptly was almost threatening in the heavy silence. He walked to the gramophone, desperate to break up the quiet, but there was nothing in it. He said a word that he’d never repeat in front of someone else and scrubbed his hands over his face.

Randall’s assessment was wrong, but only because he was counting the search for a conduit from when Hershel took Luke in rather than when he first discovered the ritual. Hershel didn’t regret using Clark, but the potential to breed a replacement had died with him. He hadn’t known that the subject’s metaphysical strength was a factor in the success of the ritual. Considering how rare viable candidates were, breeding wouldn’t have been worth the effort.

Clark in his late thirties had a fraction of the power that Luke had now at thirteen. The boy’s animal talking was more fluid and practiced even when they had met, but practice had expanded it to empathy, psychometry, even fairly accurate fortune telling. With an amplifier, Luke could do the sort of things Hershel had only seen in books.

Hershel was sure Luke would be able to channel the energy necessary to bring back Claire without burning out halfway through the way Clark had. The question was whether the boy would survive it.

Luke’s father had lived, in the sense that he was breathing even after he burnt out, but he’d withered and died in a matter of days, staring blankly into the middle distance as his body slowly shut down. Clark’s death was necessary, but they’d once been friends, and it was a stomach churning death. Bruises bloomed as the blood vessels under his skin dissolved and left his limbs increasing cold and blue. The man had lost control of his functions and bled from every orifice. Eventually, the man’s labored breathing had slowed until he’d finally died.

It would be Luke this time, if the ritual ravaged him the way it had Clark. His clever little treasure, his dark eyes fading and falling blind as everything that made him who he was burned out of him with a seething light. 

Hershel hadn’t stopped looking for someone after he found Luke. He wasn’t the sort of man pleased by one vague plan, after all. With the stories, he’d assumed Misthallery was a gold mine of talent. Perhaps more of a copper mine - plenty of lower level psychics, the sort of people with something more like knacks than any real magic. Every test he ran revealed them to be useless, a fraction of Clark and nothing next to Luke. Had he used them, he’s not sure they would have even made it to Clark’s slow death. It was beginning to look like Luke was metaphorically and literally a singular treasure. 

Hershel finally dropped his arms, considering his office. The records were in the bedroom; he’d had them moved upstairs as something of an apology for leaving Luke alone in it, he remembered. His eyes skimmed over ornate paintings and his plants, gifts from a long gone housekeeper.

He went over his options, starting to pace. A failed ritual would take Luke and Claire beyond his reach. A successful one would give him Claire, but it could take Luke. He’d killed for Claire before, countless people. One child shouldn’t be weighed so heavily. It wouldn't be the first child he’d killed, and while it was an ugly death, his understanding was that it was only painful during the ritual. 

It might not kill him, though. There were records of totally successful rituals. Luke was so much more powerful than he’d expected based on Clark’s ability. It was possible that the boy would be totally unharmed. More likely, he would be maimed in some way. 

He might never forgive Hershel when he understood the truth. That was the worst part of considering his plans. Neither of them would be pleased with him. He hoped to bring Claire around eventually, that gratitude would eventually win out over her moral outrage, but putting Luke forward for this could irreparably damage the love he had for Hershel. 

He could put his plans aside, choose not to go through with it, but it wouldn’t protect him from losing Luke. The most worrying option was that the boy might discover the original reason Hershel had taken him in, killing his affection and leaving Hershel alone in his empire of corpses.

His parents, Randall, Claire, they’d been taken from him, but in destroying Luke, he irrevocably owned him. Hershel conceded the ritual would continue as planned. 

Perhaps, he should apologize for neglecting him.


	2. Odette

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luke Triton, 13, has been living with Hershel for 8 years. In that time, they've developed a loving but not at all healthy or familial relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 Trigger Warning  
> Hershel wants to have sex with a minor.  
> Sexual Behavior Involving a minor

Hershel, unlike Randall, knocked politely. 

“Come in!” Luke called. 

When Hershel opened the door, he didn’t immediately see Luke. This was not unusual. This playroom was larger and more extravagant than most. His boy deserved the best, he thought, struck by the realization that the room might soon be silent. He stepped past a mountain of plushies arranged by colour and over the tracks of an expensive railway set Luke named the Kitty Cat Railway which snaked through the room. Finally, near a small raised wooden stage, sat a vanity where Luke sat, carefully applying lipstick. 

Hershel’s heart stopped at the sight of him. Luke wore a white frilly wedding dress, designed to fit his small body and adorned with lace ruffles and real pearls. On the vanity was a small lace veil and a tawny plush lion, dressed in a blacksuit. On the stage lay a large, napping German Shepherd, Pesto, Luke’s watchdog.

“My.” Hershel crooned, stopping behind the boy, to look at him in the mirror. “What a beautiful bride! I’m a terribly lucky man.” The boy met his eyes in the mirror and looked away with a huff.

“I’m not marrying you.” Luke said matter-of-factly. “I don’t want a husband who never plays with me or gives me kisses.” It was stupid to be so hurt by it. Self-centered, too, when he thought about his plan. It didn’t matter. The boy may not live to marry him either way.

“I don’t have a reason that’s good enough, my treasure.” He admitted. The only reason good enough would have been saving you, and I’ve failed completely, he thought. “Could I perhaps try to make it up to you?” The boy considered it.

“You have to be really sorry. And it has to be really good.” The boy finally cracked and gave him a shy smile, like the sun peeking through the clouds. “I can’t leave him at the altar for just any old ruffian, after all.” 

Hershel pulled the boy around on his stool to face him and kissed him. He’d intended it to be slow, a gentle apology, but the grief and the time he’d spent away from his boy twisted it into something desperate, possessive. The boy curled his little fists in Hershel’s shirt as he licked into the boy’s gasping mouth. Their kiss ended once they were both panting, and Hershel reluctantly broke it.

“I need to do a bit of business at The Puzzle Piece, but Odile’s in on the way, and just got their shipments in. We could spend the evening at the hotel just outside the city, the one you like with the very large bed?”

The boy nodded eagerly, grinning with a tempting, lipstick smeared mouth.

“I want the strawberry truffles.”

“All of them?”

“All of them.” Luke said very seriously, his grin tucked away. Hershel’s heart panged ugly and painful in his chest. 

“Well, I suppose we’ll have to clean you up first.” Hershel said, carefully stern. Then, he scooped him up without warning. The boy shrieked with laughter, and Hershel muffled it with kisses and lapped at the boy’s stained lips, holding him tightly.

Randall had said to make the best of it, after all.

It only took a moment to carry Luke to the next hall, where the bedroom and Luke’s closet were. When Luke still had his own room, he’d been sleeping in the room that adjoined Hershel’s own, and it only had a walk-in closet. As he now shared Hershel’s bedroom, though, they’d repurposed his whole previous bedroom into a closet. 

The room was laid out almost like a shop so every piece was on display, except the jewelry stored carefully in the walk in. Hershel looked over it, taking in all of the options. A rack of lovely dresses in every length stood on his left, but he discarded them. They were going to be in public, and he didn’t want any stares. Skirts, too. He hummed to himself, considering, as he walked.

Rather than follow Hershel, he saw that Luke was undressing out of the corner of his eye. Simply dropping the dress on the floor, the boy wore simple but very pretty underclothes. A white camisole, panties, and a pretty garter belt, they were all in soft, plain fabric.

Hershel forced his attention back to his self appointed task, until finally a barrette caught his eye. It put him in mind of mint chocolate, patterned with white, robin’s egg blue, mint green, and a rich, warm chocolate color. Pleased, he returned to the now naked child. Presenting it held out between two fingers, he smiled brightly. 

“Now, do you remember the rule?” He asked, lightly, the opening play of a game they’d played a thousand times. The boy beamed, taking the hair clip carefully.

“Everything has to match!” Luke chirped, and Hershel nodded. He left the boy to it, stepping out to sit down. He settled on the bed and made a few calls. He wasn’t the sort of man who needed to make reservations, but all the same, the service was much better when at least the restaurant knew they were coming. They had to be ready for the boy’s appetite, after all. 

After the calls but before he’d finished his cigarette, Luke tottered out of the closet holding a pile of clothing and dumped it into his lap for inspection. Hershel put his cigarette out to look.

On top was the barette. Hershel set it aside lightly, so he could compare colors. Next was a light green shirt with blue frills at the shoulders for sleeves. Then, he pulled ruffled shorts from the pile, rich brown and mid thigh length. The hems were decorated with bows, on the outside seams.

A bright orange ribbon was coiled on the underclothing. Luke smiled guilelessly as Hershel examined it and set it next to the barette. An invitation, one that Hershel was very tempted by, but he had plans for tonight.

As for the underclothing, the boy had chosen panties and a camisole in a matching pale blue along with partly translucent knee-length white socks. Finally, the boy had chosen a pair of mary janes matched to the shorts.

“This is a lovely combination, my dear.” The smile dropped from Luke’s face.

“But I messed up! I should be punished.” He pouted, pink lips turned down very dramatically. His eyes went to the bright citrus orange bow. It didn’t match.

“Perhaps,” Hershel said, “But I’d hate for it to ruin the evening I have planned for you. I’ll be lenient just this once.” Luke paused and then, nodded lightly, accepting being put off for later with good humor. Hershel thought, amused, that, rather than any sort of patience, the boy knew he’d only be rejected if he was being treated to something special later. Hershel continued, picking the boy up to sit him on the bed. “Now, let’s get you dressed so we can start our outing, hm? Foot.” 

The boy offered it, and Hershel kissed the top, lightly, before sliding the sock over Luke’s delicate foot. He slowly rolled it up the boy’s calf, enjoying the feel as his hands moved over it. He let it settle just about the knee, then starting at the foot, he ran his hands up the boy’s leg, ostensibly straightening it. The sock was thin enough he could feel the boy’s calves tense through it. He repeated the process on the other leg and took the panties in hand. 

“Stand up?” The boy asked, familiar with Hershel’s process. The man nodded, and Luke pulled his legs up to stand on the bed.

Hershel paused for a moment, enjoying the way the socks dimpled the boy’s plump thighs. He leaned down enough Luke could use Hershel to brace himself when he lifted one foot into the panties, then the other. Hershel slowly slipped them all the way up. He fussed at the hems, slipping a finger on each hand just inside the legs on top of the thighs. He traced them along the inside edge, flattening them. When his fingers brushed the boy’s little prick, it twitched and he pulled them away. Hershel reached his arms around the boy, instead, pulling him close. He let his hands rest for a moment on the wide tattoo across the boy’s lower back, Hershel’s own name in sigil.

He kissed Luke as he fussed with the back of the panties, enjoying the curve between Luke’s thigh and rump. He firmly smoothed the fabric over the boy’s ass. Luke gasped and pressed harder into the kiss. Hershel stepped back.

The boy was quickly aroused after so many nights alone, and his little cock pressed against the silky panties, his eyes glazed and lips kiss bruised.

“Arms up.” Hershel asked, voice rough, as he picked up the camisole. Luke lifted his arms as directed, but instead of pulling it over the boy’s head, he teased the boy’s nipples, with his free hand. 

Hershel loved the softness of the boy’s skin, but the reaction wasn’t enough. He pressed closer, to take each into his mouth until they hardened. Luke panted a little, clearly trying not to move. One day, Hershel had suckled at the boy’s chest until it was soft and puffy, but today he had other plans. Hershel finally pulled away and settled the camisole over Luke’s head, tugging it until it sat on him perfectly. Like the boy’s cock, he found he could see the outline of the boy’s nipples clearly through the thin fabric. Hershel fought the urge to adjust himself. Part of the game was appearing indifferent to it.

Next was the shirt. A pretty mint button up, he pulled it down Luke’s shaking, raised arms.

“Good boy.” He said quietly and the boy let them fall.

“Are you sure I shouldn’t be punished?”

“Patience, my dear.” Belying his words completely, he covered the boy’s mouth with his own again, carefully buttoning the shirt by feel. Luke grasped at him when he pulled away again.

“ _ Professah! _ ” He whined. “I don’t want to wait, anymore!”

Hershel kissed the boy firmly, once on the lips and again on the forehead.

“There’s nothing for it. Time for your shorts.” The boy scowled like a wet kitten but complied, stepping into them when Hershel held them out. Instead of pulling them up, though, the man dipped forward to kiss the boy’s cock through his panties. Again and once more, then he stood and slid them up the boy’s shaking legs.

He tugged at the hems, pulling them lightly over the boy’s cock, then smoothed down the front with his palms. 

“You’re being  _ mean _ .” Luke told him, firmly. 

“Am I? You seem to enjoy it.” 

“I’d like it better if you were going to be meaner, instead of making me wait.”

He pulled the boy close and nuzzled him sweetly as he squeezed the boy’s soft ass. Luke whined a little, and Hershel repeating his fussing on the back before stepping away again.

The boy was flushed and pleasantly frustrated, a pretty little sweet that was all his. He smiled as he slid the barette into the boy’s honey hair. That was enough for now, too much more teasing and the boy might get properly angry.

“Put on your shoes, darling. I’ll have them bring the car around the front.”

The boy stuck out his tongue as he plopped down.

“I better get an ice cream the size of a horse.” He informed Hershel, and the man walked out chuckling. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Luke plays wedding when he doesn't get enough attention from Hershel.


	3. Empire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hershel takes his boy out on the town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 Trigger Warnings  
> Off screen Death of an Underage OC  
> Extreme underage/Age Gap Relationship

Their first stop was Odile’s Deli. Ostensibly specializing in imports, it was one of Hershel’s most profitable businesses, both legitimately and under the table, for good reason. The squat building didn’t draw attention at first, with its small sign and dark paint, but the beautifully carved doorway opened to one of the highest quality delicatessens in the city. Every surface inside that was not covered in luxury goods instead bore intricate decoration, from the high carved ceiling down to the small cream accents on the walls. Beautiful, heavy cabinets lined the walls, filled with cheese wheels and cured meats. 

A handful of people sat chattering at the square tables which lined the back wall, while nearby, the radio tucked into the corner by the counter played something soft and sad. Josefa was working, hair tied up tightly in silk. She wrapped a sandwich made of thick bread in brown paper, under the softly swaying hanging lights. 

The most important thing about the store was that Luke, who started to fidget excitedly the moment they walked in, adored it. It had started out as merely a front for smuggling, but Luke enjoyed dropping in, not just because it carried a very hard to source imported strawberry truffle he liked. The staff adored him and had welcomed the boy like family when he'd first moved in with Hershel. They spoiled him almost as badly as Hershel did, filling him up with good cheese and whatever else caught his eye while he was there.

“Go ahead.” Hershel told the boy, once they were safely inside and they’d greeted Miguel, who managed the shop. Luke grinned and ran into the back room to harass Carmen, Miguel and Josefa’s daughter. Hershel met Miguel’s dark, amused eyes, and the man gestured to the office. Hershel shook his head minutely. 

“Just a social visit, unless you need something?” He truly hoped there wasn’t anything. 

“No, not a bit.” The man grinned, smoothing his carefully trimmed goatee. “When the boss visits, though, you have to be prepared for anything. Thank you for the tickets, by the way.” A thing that always caught Hershel’s attention when they spoke was the man’s voice, unusually though not unpleasantly high voice for a man of his size. It brought up dusty memories of church choirs from Hershel’s youth.

“You’re very welcome. I thought since I was chasing you out of your home for an evening, I may as well make it pleasant. The only business I have today, though, is that Luke wants his strawberry truffles.” 

“All of them?” Miguel asked with a quirked eyebrow, but it wasn’t really a question. “Do you want them taken out to the car or delivered to the house, sir?”

“The latter, but if you have loose boxes, please take them to the car.”

Miguel waved at a young, blond teenager named Harold hovering nervously nearby. Hershel smiled at him the bland way he’d smiled at students he hadn’t felt strongly about, when he still worked as a professor. “Bag up Luke’s chocolates from the high shelf for Mr. Layton to take with him. You’ll be taking the crate in my office to Rosa afterwards.”

“Yes, sir.” Harold peeked at Hershel. “Good afternoon, Mr Layton. Luke isn’t staying with us today, then?”

“No, not today, Harold. He just needed his sweets.” Hershel said gently. He tended to replace people that took so long to adjust to his presence, but the young man seemed to merely have an anxious temperament. Anyway, he’d taken a brotherly interest in Luke, and Hershel tried not to interfere in Luke’s friendships more than necessary.

Harold laughed nervously. 

“Mum made him up a doll. It’s not nice as the things he has, a’ course, but when she found out he was an orphan, she couldn’t be turned from it. I promised I’d offer, but I understand if you’d rather I not give it to him.”

“Please, go ahead and give it to him. He’d be delighted, I think, with such a thoughtful gift.” Frankly, Hershel thought his spoiled ward might reject the toy outright, but he wouldn’t turn it away for him. Harold looked surprised but pleased.

“Mum’ll be ecstatic. She’s only met him the once, but he left an impression.”

“Luke has that effect.” Hershel admitted, fondly.

Luke, as though hearing his name, barrelled through the doors with a giggling Carmen, her twin plaits swaying behind her. Despite being several years younger than Luke, she was taller by at least the width of Hershel’s hand.

“Professah, professah!” Luke called, startling browsing customers, but the sort of people who were regulars at Odile’s knew better than to scold him. “Carmen’s cat had kittens! They’re really cute, and they’re orange except the little one. She’s white all over.”

“Her name is Moon!” Carmen chirped. “Thank you for the tickets to the ballet. Papa took me, and I thought it was going to be boring, but the ladies were so graceful. It was like magic.”

“I’m glad you liked it, Carmen.” Hershel admitted. “I thought you might like knowing where the name of your store originated.”

“I have a present for you, Luke.” Harold blurted from nowhere, drawing the attention of the group. “Mum made you a dolly.” He offered it, in his hands. It was a simple poppet, made to look like a farm girl in thick, careful crochet.

“She’s pretty, thank you!” Luke said, snatching it up. The older boy watched him with an intensity that upset Hershel. He’d need to be watched more closely. 

“Glad ya like her. Mum’ll be thrilled.”

“Your mum’s nice.” Luke said, evenly. They stood, smiling at each other. Hershel cleared his throat. Harold jumped, but it soothed something when Luke simply smiled up with him. Whatever was there, Luke had no part of it.

“Boy.” Miguel said, sharply but his eyes were slanted to watch Hershel. “You gave it to him, now get to your work.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” Harold skittered away and with him went the tension in Hershel’s jaw.

“He’s not going to work here very long.” Luke said, cheerfully, and pulled a piece of paper out from under the poppet’s dress. He handed it to Hershel without opening it.

“I’m so sorry.” Miguel started quietly. “They’re never alone, but all the same, I should have known.” Hershel took the note, hushing the man.

“I trust you, Miguel. You’ve followed the rules faithfully for years.” He opened and found it was exactly what he’d expected, a school boy’s love note. Passing it to Miguel, he noticed Carmen looked a bit sad. “I’m sorry, dear girl. You will be losing a playmate.” She nodded, resigned.

“Can we at least hire a girl this time?” She asked, and how could he deny such a small request?

“Of course. Actually, if you’d be so kind as to fetch me an envelope and a pen, I can handle it right away.” The girl brightened and promptly did as requested. Obedient in a way Luke generally wasn’t, it should have been charming. He mostly thought she’d do well at her own shop in a few years.

Hershel took the note back from Miguel and wrote carefully on the bottom that he would need a shop girl for Odile’s, folded it into thirds like a proper letter and put it into the envelope.

He wordlessly passed the envelope down to Luke, who immediately understood. The boy took it and ran his little pink tongue over the adhesive and carefully shut the envelope, smoothing out any creases. “Good boy.” Luke smiled as he passed it back.

Finally, Harold wandered back into the store. He seemed to sense a change in the atmosphere, eyes flickering over the room.

“The bag with all the loose ones is in the car, Sir.” He offered unsurely.

“I have another request, Harold, and you must fulfill it exactly as I ask it.”

“Yes, Sir.” He stood at attention.

“When you deliver the crate to my home, I will need you to also deliver this letter. Do not-” He ordered firmly. “-give this to anyone but Randall Ascot, this is extremely important. Then, I need you to wait for his response. He may dismiss you, but more likely, he will need you for an errand. He’s tall and slim with red hair.” Harold nodded and took the envelope carefully. “With that, I’m afraid we must be off.”

“Goodbye, everyone.” Luke said, solemnly. Everyone bid quick, quiet farewell, and soon, they were on their way. 

When Hershel told him he was allowed to eat one of the boxes of chocolate, the boy left the little doll into the bag in favor of the sweets. The man smiled indulgently and told him to take another.

* * *

If the drab Odile’s was a black swan tucked between bolder beasts, the Puzzle Piece was a peacock. The bricks were a clean tawny, with cheerily painted sills around massive windows. Displayed behind them were a wide variety of toys. Brightly colored bricks spelled out song lyrics. A crowd of dolls and stuffed animals gathered at a miniature table around a tiny, delicately painted porcelain tea set. Behind then, a train pulling a load of candies sped by.

The Puzzle Piece moved guns and other light weaponry, primarily, but his motivation for building it up this much had more to do with the gleeful little boy clinging to his suit jacket.

“The marionettes, Professah!” Luke gasped, pointing at where 3 employees were showing off a massive, complicated horse puppet to a crowd of awestruck children.

“I see that. I hadn’t realized we were in time for the weekly exhibition.” Hershel admitted. Luke turned big, sad eyes on him. He smiled a bit sadly. 

“Not today, I’m afraid, my love. I can’t watch you from the office, and we didn’t bring Pesto.”

“But I want to watch the puppets...” Luke complained, pouting.

“I know, love. How about we buy you something nice before we leave instead, and come back next week?” He didn’t look convinced. “Next week is clockwork toys.” Hershel had no idea what the original plan for next week would be, but it was now clockwork. The suggestion worked like a charm, delight blooming on the boy’s face.

“Really? Do you promise? Oh professah, what do you think they’ll have?”

“I couldn’t say.” Hershel said it lightly, as if he were teasing. The boy pouted at him, dramatically this time, but couldn’t hold onto it and started giggling. He was beautiful, always, but seeing him like this, pleased by the world, by Hershel, was one of Hershel’s favorite expressions. “Come on, then. I’ll need to talk to Mulberry.”

With his combover, greying moustache, and stern gaze, James Mulberry was the sort of man one might have expected to run an accounting firm, not a toy store. He seemed to enjoy it though, and the man did an exceptional job keeping the guns hidden and the store impossibly cheerful. When Hershel knocked on his office door, Mulberry called for him to come in.

He hid his anxiety better than young Harold had, but Hershel could see how unsettled he was to see Hershel standing in the doorway, The man stood politely. 

“Professor, welcome. I have the lists you called about earlier.” Hershel gestured for him to sit. The man did so, but not before sliding a thin file of papers across the table. Hershel thanked him and took it as he sat.

It had three coded pages tucked inside. He extended a hand without looking up, and Luke slipped a pen in it. The first page was full of requests, and the second was an inventory list. He quickly indicated what should be filled from inventory, and gave permission for what needed to be ordered. He noted down that he’d like next week’s show to be clockwork and, in code, that he'd like to see more drum barrels for Thompson automatics come through. 

The last page listed what of Luke’s birthday presents had come in, what was on order, and in one case, a note of something Luke might like based on things he’d bought for him previously. It was shakily written, and a few specks of ink to the sides made him think the man had considered scratching it out. He noted next to it that it should be added.

He looked over the list, again. Buying presents a little more than four months early had seemed practical when he’d first put in the order. One of the boy’s unusual talents meant he sometimes foresaw his presents, particularly birthday presents. His father had complained not long before his death that Luke had known everything a day or two before, and the boy’s previous range paled in comparison to some of his more recent accomplishments. 

Now, though, Hershel was planning an extravagant birthday party months ahead for a child who may be dead by the end of the week. He wrote instructions on what to do with the gifts numbly and replaced all of it onto Mulberry’s desk.

“I’ll be heading out, then. Thank you for all of your good work.” Mulberry smiled, tightly.

“Thank you, Sir. Have a good evening.”

“To you, as well.” He found his boy standing on a plush ottoman and gazing into the man’s aquarium. “Luke?” The boy jumped guiltily. 

“I’m coming. Are we finally shopping? Goodbye Mr. Mulberry!” He added, brightly passing Hershel out of the office.

Hershel followed more sedately.

“I want a doll, a real one.” Luke informed him. “The poppet was alright, but I want one with a pull string.” 

The boy, who’d long since memorized the layout, quickly pulled Hershel to the shelves filled with dolls. He moved past the beautifully carved wooden dolls and found a line of soft plush fabric dolls. After looking for a moment, he plucked one off the shelf. Hershel watched him gently pull the cord from nearby.

“ _M_ _ama, I’m hungry._ ”

_“I love you, mama!”_

_“Twinkle twinkle little star…”_

A frown came to the boy’s face. His taste in toys would be considered feminine by most, and it meant he had this problem sometimes. The boy never complained, but Hershel knew it wore at him.

“Perhaps, we should get you a new train instead. I saw one in the inventory list that I don’t believe you have yet.” The boy’s face hardened, and he took hold of Hershel’s jacket sleeve once more to drag him to the trains. Kitty Cat Railway needed another new cargo train, after all.

* * *

  
  


Luke didn’t have a favorite restaurant, anymore. He’d had such good food in so many places that it was impossible to choose between them. If he had to pick a favorite fancy hotel restaurant, though, it was this one. They liked to visit this particular hotel to get away from the constant nag of business and Randall back home, and the Platinum Cloud never disappointed. 

Despite the name, the restaurant was darkly decorated, as Hershel preferred, and it had an intimate atmosphere most fancier places lacked. It was in the crushed velvet decor, the plush black carpet, the red walls, and the table designed so they could sit close, unlike the larger ones restaurants usually used. All of it together made their private room feel almost like a separate building, just for them. He supposed that having a private room also meant they got better service than most, thanking a smiling waitress as she filled a tall glass with milk for him.

They’d set the table with breads and slices of good cheese before he and the Professah had even sat down to order. She gave him a menu before she stepped away, careful not to make any sort of contact during any of it. The Professah was protective, even a little possessive. Even an accidental brush of a finger wasn’t acceptable. Luke smiled, but shook his head when Hershel shot him a curious look. Some things were nicer when the people who gave them to you didn’t know you liked them, he thought.

“Please take your time, sirs.”

The menu was mostly meat dishes. This was another reason he liked the Platinum Cloud. 

“I want a rack of lamb with mint sauce. A T-bone steak- No, no, a beef wellington, instead. I also want an extra cheesy pizza, a bowl of alfredo, and garlic bread. Can you have them spread cheese on the garlic bread and toast it again? Just enough to melt the cheese.”

“Would you like us to prepare anything for dessert?” The waitress asked, still writing. 

Luke considered it carefully.

“I want a milkshake, but can I have it now?”

“Yes, Sir. I’ll bring it out immediately.” She turned her attention to the Professah. “And you, Sir?”

“A salad with vinaigrette, followed by the deli plate.” She nodded.

“Yes, Sir. I’ll bring them out as soon as they’re done.” With that, the woman left.

“That’s not very much.” 

“Yes, I’m afraid I’m not very hungry.” That was worrying. The man hadn’t made it to breakfast or lunch. 

“You’re supposed to be apologizing to me.” The stress that had lingered on the man all day seemed to press down on him, but Luke shook his head when the man started to speak. “There’s a routine. Usually, you’re really relaxed by now, but it feels like something’s still wrong.” 

“I’m sorry, my boy.” He said quietly, sounding properly apologetic. “I _am_ trying to focus on you.” Luke waited, but the man didn’t explain. He fought the urge to scowl.

“I can help.” He thought it over. “Or did you fight with Randall again?” They bickered all the time, but when they got into real fights, they were both moody for days. Maybe, that’s what it was like when you were working with your ex. He was glad he’d never have to worry about it.

“That’s some of it.” The man rolled the tall stem of the wineglass back and forth between his fingers. “You know how I hate when he has a point.”

“What’s the rest?” When Luke asked, the professah looked at him for a long moment, like he was looking for something.

“I have a project.” That could mean anything from designing a puzzle or covering up a massacre, but Luke nodded. “It’s time sensitive and important to me personally, rather than for business, and while it will work, it still isn’t going quite how I’d like.”

“It’s probably good that you’re taking a break, then.” He pointed out. “Maybe it’ll help you figure it out.”

“Maybe.” The Professah said, smiling softly. Luke was going to keep pushing, but two waitresses hurried in with their food.

Luke gestured to set the various plates down in front of him. The first waitress didn’t have any trouble, but the new face seemed confused, first to find herself in a private room and second that so much was for Luke. 

He licked his lips at the giant rack of roasted lamb set down in front of him, dripping with the mint sauce. Then the pizza and the garlic bread, the beef wellington, and finally, the alfredo got placed at the back of the pile, meanwhile the Professah had his light salad placed down in front of him. 

He did get the milkshake, served in a tall glass. Chocolate with ice and a heaping of whipped cream and a scoop of ice cream. He licked his lips again and pulled the straw into his mouth to start drinking.

“Now, Luke, we’ve barely had a chance to speak properly.” The Professah’s glass was filled with a deep rose wine. “How about you tell me about your week? Maybe, your French studies, I know you were excited by it the last time we spoke.”

Luke took a slab of lamb drenched in the mint sauce to lay on his plate to immediately scoff it down. And he went to grab another slice, looking up to see the man completely fixated on him. “Come now, you haven’t been playing _all_ week, have you?”

“Oh, I learned how to ask for breakfast in French!” Luke declared with a grin, but he quickly crammed some more lamb into his mouth. It tasted _so good._ The mint just made his tongue tingle and complimented the lamb perfectly. What a treat.

“And just how do you ask?”

“You say-” Luke set his fork down, clearing his throat into his fist. “ _Ce qui est pour le petit déjeuner?_ ”

The Professah lightly clapped for him after hearing him speak. “Very good! Your accent could use some work, but I’m sure you’ll get it with time.”

"The tutor mentioned it once, but he got distracted by-" Luke stopped at the realization. "I think he might like me like you do."

The Professah's eyes narrowed. Luke went on. "We were going to do a little on accents the other day, but he started asking about my clothes. He's asked other stuff before, too, about us. Our relationship, I mean, and not grouchy like Randall does." Luke thought Randall’s gruff concern would be more touching if he didn’t usually follow it up by calling Luke stupid for saying he was fine.

“I’m deeply sorry. I will be sure to pick someone a bit more appropriate for you when I replace him.”

“Okay.” That was the second person today. Luke didn’t _mind_ that so many people disappeared from his life, but it dragged him down, sometimes. It felt like Hershel was the only person he could keep. He even worried about Pesto, sometimes.

“I’m sorry, again, my dear. This was meant to be a good evening.”

“It was.” Luke pouted. “You were supposed to be making it up to me but now I’m sad again.”

“Does it help if I have a surprise for you?” A small smile crept across the man’s face. Luke perked up in his seat.

“Do you _really?_ ” Luke asked the man who hummed agreeably. 

“Would you like it now? I can have them bring it in,” He said. Luke shot him an impatient look, but he only laughed and clapped his hands, signaling the staff.

Luke raised an eyebrow as staff carried in some wrapped presents. Excitement bubbled in his stomach, and he bounced in his seat. 

The nervous looking busboy picked up a few packages, and the waitress, who had quickly stacked the dishes, began removing them to the free space on the cart.

“In front of Luke, if you would.” The Professah directed. “You may go ahead and open them, Luke. They’re yours, afterall.” 

“Thank you!” Luke chirped and immediately dug his fingers into the paper on the first box and tore it open.

The first thing he saw was a small spatula. There was a wooden spoon and little tin pans, serving spoons and a pack of beautiful cloth napkins.

“Your play kitchen looked a bit barren last time I saw it.” Hershel said, swirling the end of his wine and smiling. Luke’s heart fluttered in his chest at the sight of him so handsome. It looked like he was finally relaxed.

“We have to play house now.” Luke informed him firmly. “As soon as we get home.” The man just chuckled, an assurance he would indeed be playing house.

Luke turned to the next present, but he noticed a problem as he tried, and failed, to hoist it into his lap. It was _huge,_ actually, too big and heavy to even budge, and he had to stand up to grab the ribbon. 

“It’s too heavy.” He whined a little, and the Professah stood fluidly.

“I’ll get it, dear boy. I’d forgotten one of them might be too much for you on your own.” The man hoisted it into his arms to put it down to the floor.

Luke, standing, pulled the ribbon open and tore the paper open with a swipe, opening a box to reveal a _beautiful_ pedal car. Beautiful quality too, and with a mirror shine finish. His eyes shone.

“It’s modeled after an Auburn Boattail Speedster.” The Professah told him, amused. 

“It’s so _pretty_.” Sleek and black, the child sized car looked much more elegant than most of the hunks of metal sputtering up and down the street. “Can we get a real one?” The Professah looked really excited, which for him meant the lines around of his eyes crinkled just so. Luke sighed, just watching him with a smile. 

“Of course! Yes, I was beginning to think you’d never find one you’d like, it’s actually-” He began to rattle off car specifications, which truthfully, Luke didn’t understand or care for, and found himself wondering if he could hit Randall with his new toy hard enough to bruise his shins. “But, I also was thinking of perhaps getting an early model Ford imported.”

“I like it when you’re excited, even if I don’t know what you’re saying...” Luke told him, enjoying the way the man’s expression settled into a hesitant smile. “I’m going to open my last present.”

He crawled back into his chair and ripped most of the paper on the top away with one careful swipe. Luke considered himself an expert on opening presents. 

Inside was a teddy bear family. The biggest one wore a top hat, the medium wore a tie, and the little one-

“Is this one a dog dressed like a bear?” He giggled.

“Well, not everyone wants to have children.” Hershel explained. “I thought you might enjoy a family to play with that isn’t… a husband and wife. More like us. Anyway, you needed a proper groom for playing wedding.” Hershel said the last bit quietly.

“Well, we probably need one for Randall, too...” 

“Why Randall? I didn’t think you paid him much thought.” He seemed genuinely curious. “Besides, you’ll just put it in jail forever.”

“It’s where he belongs.” Luke informed him very seriously.

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do!” He did not. Randall belonged at the manor, complaining about everything and bossing the gardeners, but Teddy Randall was definitely going to live in jail.

“Alright, Luke,” The man didn’t seem to believe him at all. “There should be other clothes in the box, too.” Luke ducked his head to get them.

More hats and proper clothes, including dresses to fit each toy. He peeked at the Professah, trying to imagine him in an evening gown. No, he decided, a silky nightgown. He thought it might suit the man, but he’d look even better naked. Luke thought it was time to move onto the next event.

“Could we head to our room?” Luke asked, hugging the stuffed dog to his chest. He’d already decided to name it Pesto Jr.

“Ah, of course.” The Professah extended a calloused hand, and Luke was quick to take it.


	4. Rites of Bacchus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternatively, a room for ten people.  
> Luke and Hershel have sex in their hotel room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is not plot related and is essentially pure smut, so if you wish to skip you won't miss any important plot details. If you don't feel as if you are in a good state to read this chapter, please consider skipping. 
> 
> The only thing of general value is that Hershel is briefly affectionate towards the end in a non-sexual sense, and knowing that it happens is the most important information it conveys.
> 
> Chapter 4 Trigger Warnings  
> Underage Sex

The room wasn’t large so much as it was exactly the right size to match the bed. The bed, in contrast, was very, very big, and Luke tossed his bears onto it before kicking off his shoes to flop down next to them. The professah tipped the confused looking bellboy for carrying up Luke’s other toys, and he took it without question and hurried out. Finally, they were alone. 

This was a room they visited on occasion for those  _ special  _ nights - it almost felt like a short holiday. The bathroom had a beautiful jacuzzi and all sorts of luxury toiletries. The room even had a fireplace decorated with an intricate stone mosaic, but the attraction was the bed, which Hershel had once implied was meant for group sex.

The boy rolled on his back, watching the older man carefully discard his suit jacket and top hat. Without the jacket, Luke could see his modest belly and the leather harness that held his revolver. He stepped out of his leather loafers and smiled when he noticed Luke watching him.

“I have a plan for tonight, as I’m sure you gathered.” The man smirked as he sauntered to the bed. Luke squirmed a little. When they first started doing this about a year and a half before, he tried not to look too eager. Since then, though, he’s found out how much Hershel enjoyed Luke’s pleasure, how much he liked Luke wanting him.

“I still think you should have ‘punished’ me earlier.” Luke grumbled. “I  _ like _ it.” The man loomed tall over him now, still smirking.

“I suppose.” The man said, voice low. “I could have put you on your hands and knees and spanked you. Just slipped your pretty panties aside and enjoyed you then.” Luke pushed himself further onto the bed, another invitation the older man didn’t take. Instead, he slowly removed his cufflinks and set them aside. “I find, though, that a little anticipation sweetens things.”

“You mean I’m not good enough for you, anymore.” Luke teased, still faintly irritated. “I’m getting too old. You don’t even want to take off my clothes.” The man shot him an unamused look. 

“I told you I had a plan for tonight. I thought since I’ve been so terribly neglectful, it was only fair that  _ you _ get to decide what we do tonight.” Luke was too surprised to joke that what he’d decided hours ago was getting fucked in their bed after all that teasing. 

For all that the man pampered Luke, Hershel rarely gave him control over this aspect of their lives beyond yes or no. Luke thought it over as the man set his elegant revolver on the bedside table. Luke scooted to the edge of the bed, staring up at his Professah.

“Lean down.” Luke ordered him, voice weak, but the man complied readily. Luke ran his hands over the man’s chest, enjoying the rough leather over the soft cotton shirt and the way the straps stretched over his shoulders. “Take this off.” Luke tugged on the harness.

“Yes, Sir.” The man intoned, teasing, but Luke shivered. 

“The shirt, next. The undershirt, too.” The Professah nodded his head, and quickly removed the all, setting them next to the revolver. He even pulled his amulet, carefully wrought and magic, over his head and set it aside.

Between the strong shoulders from sword fighting and the curve of his small tummy, he had a body that was both soft and distinctly masculine. Scars dotted his skin. Some were large and long, like the carvings running up his arms, but most were smaller, from bits of shrapnel or getting tagged in a gunfight. 

He ran his hands over the Professah’s chest again. He could feel some of the scars, but mostly, he felt the Professah’s breathing pick up. He looked up to find the man watching him, eyes affectionate. He smiled as Luke pulled him down so they could share a kiss.

It was sweeter than their kisses usually were, at least in bed. It was the patience, Luke decided. He wasn’t familiar enough with being in control to push, and the Professah was following along obediently, as he’d promised. It shot heat through the boy, and he pulled away.

He kissed the man’s chest, opening his trousers. Luke slipped a hand inside his underwear to caress his cock, hot and hard. When he tilted his head back, the Professah was flushed. Luke pulled away, pleased by the way the man squinted at him.

“I want you to finish getting naked.” Luke said, quietly. Hershel hooked his thumbs in his underwear and pushed it all off his hips at once, then slipped off his socks. 

He’d only seen two cocks in his life, one of them his own, so Luke didn’t know if Hershel’s was big. Every time he was reminded he couldn’t close his hand around it, though, he thought it must be. He did his best to stroke it with one hand on it, rubbing circles under the head with his thumb.

“What should I do with you now?” He wondered aloud, speaking in a sing-song tone. 

“You could fuck me.” The Professah offered, bluntly. Luke considered it, comparing the prick in his hand to his own prick.

“I don’t think I’m big enough for it to be worth it and we don’t have the strap-on thingy...” Luke finally admitted. Hershel inclined his head, eyes gone hungry. Luke also really wanted something inside of him tonight. “I’m going to tie you to the head board and ride you instead. Did you bring one of the sashes?”

The Professah nodded, reaching into his back pocket and producing a beautiful red silk sash. Strong, but soft enough that there shouldn't be any marks. Luke shivered. The man must have been waiting, hoping, to be tied up all day.

“Perfect. Now, lay on the bed with your arms up.” The Professah carefully positioned himself in the middle of the oversized bed, the back of his hands resting against the headboard. Luke crawled to the head of the bed and pulled the silk sash tight, wrapping it around the man’s wrists and tying a knot. The knot was tight but careful, the kind he’d been taught how to escape. They shared a smile.

Luke wiggled down the bed so he could throw one of his legs over Hershel’s stomach and settle onto the man’s stomach. A benefit to being so small, he could sit there as long as he wanted. He grinned down at his captive. “Even though you deserve it, it would probably be awfully mean to leave you like this. It’s a good thing I thought of something else!” Luke said, unbuttoning his shirt slowly. It was hard not to hurry to the fun part, but feeling the man’s begin to tense the longer he took made him smile. 

“Luke?”

The best part, he thought, was that he wasn’t even going very slowly. The professah just expected him to rush.

“Yes?” He asked, guilelessly.   
“You’re usually a bit more… eager.” Luke had finally reached the last button, but instead of taking it off completely, he untucked it and let it slip off his shoulders and hang there. “I was wondering what you were planning.”

"I just thought since you had fun dressing me up slowly, you'd like this too.” The Professah made a face that Randall assured him meant the man was thinking a lot of bad words.

“Of course.” The man assured him, biting his lip. “Please continue.” Luke petted his own silky camisole, from the top down.

“Mm-hmm!” He teased his nipple through it, and after a moment, he moved a hand to his crotch too. Instead of stroking himself, though, he rolled his hips into his hand. He gasped and did it again. After spending all day waiting, finally feeling even a drop of pleasure was  _ amazing _ . Luke opened his shorts, pulling them open and slipping a hand inside. He moaned softly and started to move his hips again.

The man watched him, a hunger in his eyes. Luke could feel him start to tense in time with his hips.

“Are you imagining it, Professah? I am.” Luke teased, voice sultry. “I can almost feel you inside me already.”

“Luke, please.” 

“No~” He said through a teasing giggle, tossing his shirt aside. He felt so hot, the man’s gaze burning him all over. “You’ll wait until I’m ready!”

He stood for a moment to take off his shorts and sat back down, further back so that his hard prick rested against the Professah’s. 

“ _ Luke. _ ” The man groaned beneath him. Luke braced his hands on the man’s chest and rutted against him. He could feel the heat of the man burning beneath him and the slide of the thin silk separating them. He thought about how big the Professah was and how small  _ he  _ was. The older man’s growing desperation.

“What did you say earlier about my panties?” Luke asked, tilting his head. The Professah took a moment to catch his meaning and rolled his hips up to meet Luke’s. He slapped the man’s thigh lightly. “Stop it- if you aren’t good, I’ll stop.”

“I’ll be good.” The Professah managed, voice hoarse. “Please.” 

“Didn't you say something earlier about  _ fucking  _ me?” Luke reached back with one hand as he swore - something he rarely did, pulling the silk to the side. Shivering, he could feel the Professah’s bare skin against his prick. He kept rubbing against him again, slower but all the way forward. He didn’t stop moving until he could feel the thick head of the man’s prick press against his hole. The Professah pulled his restraints, hard, gritting his teeth. Luke held the base of the cock with his hand and rubbed it over the rim of his ass gently. “Ask nicely, Professah!” 

“Luke,  _ please _ .”

“Nicer!”

“Please, my darling. I’m burning for you. Let me have you. I’ll do anything for you, you know that, please.” Hershel looked so soft, glazed eyes pinned on Luke and his hair mussed from the pillow. Luke smiled brightly at the genuine desperation in his voice and pulled away.

“I guess I should finish taking off my clothes, then...” The Professah hissed through his teeth and threw his head back against the pillow, as Luke released him to sit down. 

Luke noticed the Professah’s eyes leaving him for the ceiling, and he slapped the man’s thigh harder this time. The man jerked his head back up.

“You have to keep looking at me too!”

“Or you’ll stop?” The Professah sounded exasperated.

“Mm-hmm.” He nodded once, playing with the hem of his camisole. The man watched, intently as he slowly pushed it up his belly. “I’ll wank onto your chest and leave you like this.” 

The Professah swallowed, still watching as the camisole rose up Luke’s abdomen. 

“I won’t look away.” He promised quietly. Luke pulled the camisole off completely, and tossed it aside. Just as he had when he’d first taken his shirt off, he petted his front, then stood. He rubbed a thumb over his bare prick, for a moment, basking in the man’s riveted stare. 

The panties took only a second to take off, then he was naked except for his thigh high socks. He knew the Professah liked the way his thighs overfilled them just a little, so he decided to leave them on.

They had various bottles of olive oil hidden all throughout this room, since no one stayed in it but them. On the desk, on the chair, on the dresser, in the bathroom… Thankfully, a heavy vial was tucked in the pillow the Professah’s head was laying on, so he didn’t have to look. Luke poured a dollop of the thick oil onto the Professah’s cock, before setting it aside and spreading the oil down it with both hands. The Professah moaned, hips stuttering up as he fought not to move. Luke smiled, working both hands over him faster.

“Feel good?”

“ _ Please _ .” Hershel sounded broken, tamed to Luke’s touch. He looked at Luke the way he might an otherworldly vision. Divine or infernal, only the awe in his gaze mattered.

“Please, I’m trying to follow the rules, but I can’t do this much longer, my sweet.”

“Say you love me!”

“I do. I love you so much. My dearest one, my little treasure. Please, you’re so beautiful sometimes I ache with it down to the bone. Luke, please, I need you.” 

Luke let go of the man’s cock with both hands, and the man made a noise that would have been a sob from anyone else. The boy didn’t waste time reassuring him, instead rising and repositioning over the man’s no doubt aching erection. 

As the head of the Professah’s cock made it past the tiny tight ring of muscle, he gave a strangled desperate moan. It made the sharp burn worth it as Luke sank down, gritting his teeth. He only took a few inches at first, moving his hips in small circles. He filled up slowly, easing himself down until he was panting and fully seated on it. Luke’s head swam. He felt like he’d been impaled. 

“ _ Professaahhh... _ ” Luke managed, gritting his teeth and curling his toes as he sat. His hands balled into fists, just trying to adjust.

The poor Professah was straining against the sash, hips still twitching up into Luke. A wave of affection came over the boy as the burn faded some. The boy spoke in a pained wince. 

“D-- Do you want to set the pace?” 

“You were very clear about rules.” The Professah rasped, voice a touch sardonic. 

“You're mean...” Luke commented. He tightened as much as he could before lifting himself up slightly with his thighs, and dropping back down. The Professah’s arms shook badly now. “If… if you move or look away, I’ll stop…” 

The burn had eased to a simmering pain, almost a kind of pleasure all its own. The boy lifted himself. 

“That’s-” Hershel’s voice faded when Luke bounced on him again, finding his rhythm. “That’s perhaps a bit much, isn’t it?”

“Nope!” The boy chirped, popping the ‘p’. Luke tensed his thighs, slowly raising himself almost completely off before dropping down. The sudden fullness made him whine, and he did it again. He couldn’t do it for long before his legs started to shake too badly so he intended to enjoy it. 

Beneath him, the Professah was imploding. He shook, obviously at the end of his control, but he didn’t thrust up. Mostly importantly, he was looking at Luke, eyes molten and hungry. They roved over Luke’s flushed face, his soft chest, the swell of his belly, his little cock, his thick thighs dimpled by the socks. He looked at Luke like there was nothing else he could ever want to look at, like it pained him that he couldn’t see all of Luke at one, and the boy revelled in it.

“Professah!” Luke whined, hips moving faster. “ _ Please! _ ” 

The man understood, or maybe he was just as far gone as Luke, because he broke and started to thrust up into him. The boy mewled and ground down on him.

The pace the Professah set was faster than Luke’s, and it sent him spinning. He could hear himself whimpering distantly, but all he could do was work himself down onto the man, a little faster and harder every time. His eyes had fallen shut, but when he opened them, he found the Professah watching him with dark, worshipping eyes. Luke mewled as his climax hit him all at once. His hips stuttered to a stop as he came over the man’s sparsely haired stomach. The man slowed.

“Luke, untie me.” Hershel said, voice gently commanding even from his position.

It took too long for Luke to lean forwards and take the sash, with his shaking hands, but when the knot finally came undone, the man pushed him onto his back. The Professah gripped his thighs tightly, just above where his socks ended, and thrust into him.

Oversensitive, Luke squirmed instinctually, even as his arms clung to the man. 

“Luke?” The man’s voice was a ruin.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop!” Luke sobbed, writhing on the man’s cock. He started to fuck Luke harder in earnest, pressing his thighs against his chest. Something about the angle he was getting fucked at made it feel like the Professah’s cock was hitting everything inside of him. He couldn’t see the man, when he managed to open his eyes, his vision was too blurred with tears he hadn’t noticed. “Keep going! Keep going!” He repeated in a useless babble.  _ Keep going, don’t look away.  _ The Professah shushed him and his chants.

“That’s it, my dear.” He crooned, sounding as out of his mind as Luke felt. “Please let me keep you forever.”

“Keep me!” The boy wept to the Professah, when the sound of it hit him deeply. “Please keep me. I’m yours!” The man rumbled, pleased. He moved one hand to Luke’s prick and the other held both of the boy’s ankles as he folded him in half. He felt owned, like the Professah was writing himself into every part of Luke.

Luke came again, squealing, body arched where it was trapped beneath his legs and Hershel’s weight. A moment later, Luke cried out when, with a last powerful thrust, Hershel filled him to the brim. 

The Professah gently let his legs down and maneuvered him until he was laying properly and kissed his head before getting up. Luke closed his eyes, quivering and still recovering. He felt well loved, sore inside and coveted. When he clenched his muscles, he thought he could feel the warm seed inside him, a private mark just for them. He closed his eyes for a moment to enjoy the feeling.

When he opened them again, he found a warm wet cloth being wiped over his face. The Professah had a soft, concerned look on his face - something Luke rarely ever saw. It took a moment to realize the man wiping his face meant he’d gotten his second spend on it from their position. The man looked so gentle wearing his satin pyjamas. The colour reminded Luke of an old brick building.

“You dozed off.” The Professah informed him in a gentle murmur.

“You’re wearing pyjamas.” Luke pointed out inanely. He could still feel cold air on his naked body, sprawled out on the bed sheets. “Do I have to as well?”

“Not unless you wanted to.” He spoke gently. “I do have one of your nightgowns. Your favourite one, too.”

“Yes, please…” Luke curled up, finding himself nice and clean. The Professah gently sat him up and pulled a silky yellow nightgown over his head - smooth and soft to the touch. But the boy was exhausted, just leaning into his chest.

“I wanna sleep.”

“Of course, my dear, you’ve had a terribly long day, haven’t you?” The Professah pulled the covers over them, pulling Luke flush against him. 

The boy hummed happily, ready to settle in and get comfortable, but Hershel’s tight embrace held him still, and in an uncomfortable position. He tried to wriggle away, but the man pulled him closer, kissing his hair. Luke giggled, pushing on his chest until he relented.

“Luke?” He sounded so bereft Luke started giggling again. 

“I can’t get comfortable, Silly, let go.”

“Ah, I’m sorry.” The Professah’s arms relaxed, so Luke could finally shift until his position was just right. 

“Good night, Professah.”

“One last kiss?” The man asked, voice darkly playful, as he kissed a tickly spot high on Luke’s neck.

“Nooo, go to  _ sleep! _ ” Luke giggled.

“In a moment.” The Professah whispered. He stroked Luke’s hair and kissed it, laying back to tuck the boy into his neck. His hold was looser, free hand resting on Luke’s tattoo. “I wanted to say something first.”

“Mrr?” Luke purred, thinking the man smelled very nice, woody and expensive.

“I love you.” He gently twisted a lock of Luke’s hair around his finger. “More than I could have ever imagined. My life was endlessly gray before I loved you. I just… I need to know I was clear. I’ve spent so much time alone, and if it happens again, I will well deserve it, but I need you to know I will always love you.” Luke hummed, nuzzling closer.

“I love you, too.” Luke giggled drowsily. “Now it’s time to go to sleep.”

The man kissed his head once more, and they drifted off together.


	5. Execution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hershel deals with the problems inherent in his business and Luke's French tutor. Luke plays house, listens to his radio show, and plays in the garden.  
> Everyone is having very bad days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 5 Trigger Warnings:  
> Torture  
> Threatening with a gun  
> Suggested suicide  
> Gory explicit murder  
> Person implicitly considers violence towards a child. (Not Hershel)  
> Kidnapping  
> Person explicitly commits violence towards an animal

Hershel woke exhausted to a scowling Randall, who’d been forced to steal a key in order to fetch him. He’d forgotten a meeting scheduled for earlier than he normally returned. Normally, he’d make them wait, but it would push his entire schedule back several hours. Instead, he’d tried to maneuver Luke back to the house without waking him, which had been mostly successful. His morning did not improve.

Next, Hershel found himself at the meeting, grinding his teeth. He regularly handled investigations into his affairs. When he’d first started his career, he’d even had a short lived hero team dedicated to his capture, but the most recent probe had the Clockwork Apostle’s fingerprints all over it. Worse, he’d been snooping into Hershel’s private project.

The Apostle, unlike most, had managed to avoid Hershel’s rather thorough idea of victory because of carefully secured anonymity and a series of rather large mecha, made up like angels. Worst, he seemed to fixate on Hershel, instead of wandering off to fight a more active villain. He’d expected the man to get distracted by one of the more bombastic scoundrels marching about London spreading all sorts of terror, but no, the middle-aged business man held his attention, Hershel thought frustrated. He didn’t consider himself to be retired, but on the world stage, he’d become something of a silent actor, even a faintly malevolent background character. 

He considered redirecting some of the people he already had looking into the Apostle’s identity onto this instead, but whatever the Apostle had discovered wouldn’t matter soon. He passed the information along with the instruction that it wasn’t to be investigated unless they saw a hook into the man’s identity.

Finally, Hershel was going to have to kill a man himself. It was filthy work, and Randall always got very smug about it afterwards. Still, the French tutor needed to be replaced, and after Harold the day before, he thought it best he made his opinion on the matter at hand very clear.

Gathering all four of Luke’s tutors into the parlour didn’t take much effort. He did it often enough that they weren’t suspicious. They instinctively stood in a line, looking ironically like children brought before a school dean. Hershel had had Rosa deep clean the room beforehand - the red sofas and beautifully carved tables stood spotless. An elegant painting would be the backdrop of his performance.

“Welcome.” Hershel spoke once he’d gotten them gathered, tone even. The exits were locked behind them by servants as he spoke, the click resounding through the room. “I thought we should have a quick chat about _trust._ ” 

They started to look a bit nervous, and he felt his lips curl into a smile. He didn’t enjoy violence, but he found that people were generally more frightened when they thought he did. “I trusted you, all of you, with my most important treasure, and one of you has betrayed that trust.” Leaning back against the piano behind him, he folded his hands together. 

Hershel took a moment to examine their pale faces. “I thought sharing my situation with you might more thoroughly impress upon you how important it is that you abide by my rules. Of course, you may _resign_ instead.” He pulled his revolver with intention, and placed it on the piano top just behind him. With a smile, he looked around the gathered group. “If you wish to have this silly exercise over and done, you need only say so.”

The group remained silent, each of them. He hadn’t expected any of them to choose the revolver. While pleased not to have to replace more of them than necessary, it didn’t bode well for their collective intellect. Pistols were a relatively quick, painless death when applied properly. He moved on.

“I’m going to give each of you a glass, and you’re going to drink it.” He said, gesturing at the small tray of drinks atop the piano. The simple instruction didn’t relieve them. That wasn’t a surprise. Hershel had a well deserved reputation for exotic and nightmarish poisons. “Miss Henderson, first, then on down the line, if you please.”

Miss Henderson was a sweet, young woman whose ex-fiance had ruined her reputation beyond repair. Dark wavy hair to her shoulders and a modest fashion sense. Soft spoken and well versed in the classic texts. Her employment under Hershel kept her from a life on the street, so he expected her to comply readily. Indeed, she hurried forward, smiling weakly when he handed her the first glass and drank it in three swallows.

“Thank you, Mr. Layton?” Miss Henderson offered him the cup back. He returned it to the tray and put his hands together.

“Very good, Miss. You may sit.” Hershel gestured to one of the sofas. Indeed, he’d set them up so he could watch the group as the effects of the drink began to take hold.

The next was the target of this little misadventure, Judah Trenby. The man hadn’t been his first choice for French tutor, but as he had somewhat limited options on who he allowed into his home, he had settled. Truthfully, a bit of a mess of a man, long tangled hair and a beret, paired with a formal turtleneck and casual jeans.

He ought to have known better. 

“Judah Trenby.” Hershel spoke up, smiling at the man and lifting a particular cup off the tray. “Here is yours.”

In fairness to him though, he seemed to know he was at fault, hands shaking as he took the glass. He stared into it for a moment before locking eyes with Hershel, then, downed it in one shot.

And so it went on. Grey haired Mrs. Augustus, Luke’s mathematics tutor had a slightly lower dose as she was a diminutive, older woman. Hershel worried if he added any more than an eyedropper’s worth, she would be dead in minutes. She would be very hard to replace. She was stern but skilled in her subject and adapted to Luke’s learning style readily. Then the last tutor was Mr. Mathilde, a high school teacher who had quit his position in favour of this one. A slick tall man with a receding hairline, Hershel handed him the poison and wondered if the disconcerted man would rather resign.

Shortly, the group was sitting in the lounge. Mrs. Augustus had a book in her shaking hands, while Miss Henderson sat with her knees together and staring at the wall. Mr. Trenby, god rest his soul, was staring into the burning fireplace, while Mr. Mathilde was twiddling his thumbs.

Hershel sat on that piano seat with the revolver in one hand, just in case. He considered playing just to fill the air, but found he’d rather watch.

The effects were quick. After only a few minutes, they had all begun to sweat and shake. He could see the terror in them, but also the attempt to rationalize their position into something less frightening. Mrs. Augustus had tried to lay back while Mr. Mathilde performed deep breaths, laying back into the chair.

“If you’re of the opinion that for some reason I cannot or will not kill all of you, I would suggest you think better of it.” Hershel spoke up to break the tense silence, evenly. “I will admit, though, that I do not intend to do so today.” A part of him knew that if Luke passed during the ritual upcoming in a few days, he would have to kill each one of the tutors with the cold metal revolver currently in his hand. They _knew,_ and that was something he couldn’t take getting out.

Mr. Trenby shared a glance with a sweating terrified Miss Henderson, searching each other’s faces to find the thing that would make them safe, that would make it clear they were the survivor. Hershel watched patiently, tapping a finger on his revolver.

Each of them got sicker, all in the same ways for now. He’d been very careful in his choices. He didn’t want them to know until the last possible moment who was safe. Miss Henderson slouched against the couch arms, but it was Trenby he was watching, the man’s strained breathing beginning to overwhelm the other sounds of distress. Mrs. Augustus was beginning to cry, but she was muffling herself and biting a wrinkled lip. Mr. Mathilde had doubled over, as if he was going to vomit. Hershel checked his watch discreetly. A grim smile crossed his face. The show was about to start.

Blood began to well in Mr. Trenby’s eyes, then streamed down his cheeks like tears as his shaking worsened. It only took a split second for the others to notice, and Hershel noticed that their immediate reaction was immense _relief_ before the horror set in. Amused, he wondered what their reaction would be like once the poison reached its zenith. 

The muscle spasms were random at first, but as time passed, they encompassed Trenby’s entire body, contorting it completely. He tried to scream when the intensity of it audibly tore something out of place, but fighting the musculature in his abdomen to do so would be like trying to breathe wet sand.

Hershel got up from his seat and stepped closer, holding the revolver loosely. He’d only used this one a few times before so he inspected the man quickly. The beauty and danger with poison was that every person reacted a little differently. Trenby’s face was a tight rictus of pain. His shoulder, Hershel thought, would be what had dislocated, from the way it hung, but the muscles were still trying to contract. Trenby’s breathing had softened to a soft wheeze, and Hershel watched him until it stopped completely.

The room was silent, the twitching tutors staring at him with pleading eyes. Hershel took a deep breath and smiled.

“The poison should subside within a couple hours. The rest of you will live. You will be allowed two days off to recover, during which I do hope you think over this experience and consider what it means for your continued employment here. Again, you are welcome to resign.” He brandished the pistol to the gathered audience. “Otherwise, you are dismissed to your quarters.

The room was abandoned at incredible speed, leaving just Hershel there. He tucked the revolver back into its leather holster.

He knew that at the end of the day, if Luke _did_ pass away during the ritual, he’d have to put each of the boy’s tutors against the wall regardless. He shut his eyes to reflect, drowning in the deafening silence.

It was a bit early to fetch Luke for his show, but he missed the boy. Even though it had only been a few hours, the time away from him had felt like days. Hershel carefully set the reason why aside. Thankfully at this time of day, there were only a few places Luke would be without Hershel. 

* * *

Hershel walked through the playroom room carefully, following the sound of the boy’s cheerful chattering. Apparently the boy was in an energetic mood today, because it looked like a storm had come through. Doll clothes and trains were scattered about, and an erector set had been put together into something that looked very like a cage. Trapped inside was a teddy bear with some resemblance to the family he’d given Luke the night before, and Hershel chuckled softly, wondering how long Bear Randall’s sentence was.

In fairness to Luke, he thought as he picked his way through discarded game pieces, he was neater than Hershel himself tended to be. He might well have it half tidied before the maids got to it. Hershel had only started keeping his office clean a few years ago.

Finally, he found the child playing in his kitchen. It was a very realistic miniature, made of wood and steel, though none of it worked except the lights. The boy had raided his costume closet, dressed like a tiny housewife. His cotton dress was a deep blue gingham with lace accents, and a ribbon was tied in hair. The boy tapped along the ‘floor’ of the little kitchen in low heeled, black pumps to the little oven. He opened it and, covering his hands with the thick, white fabric of his apron, pulled out a tray of very real chocolates. The boy sat them on the dining table and matching chairs, he’d commissioned to suit Luke’s size. At the far end of the table, the chair that usually sat to make room for Pesto.

The massive german shepherd sat at attention, supervising the child as he played. She was, perhaps, the only being that loved Luke almost as much as Hershel and was endlessly patient with the boy. The rest of the seats were filled with the teddies from the night before, a doll, and a stuffed otter named Elaine, leaving one for Luke.

He had set the table and was carefully plopping three truffles on each plate with a small pair of tongs. When he would have reached Pesto, he instead set the tray on a counter and opened a cabinet to pull up a small clothes bag. He pranced back to Pesto and filled up her plate with what Hershel suspected was shredded jerky, before hurrying to put the bag away. 

Having ‘served’ the family waiting on him, he pulled out his chair and smoothed his dress over his bottom before sitting. He scooted it forward and wiggled a little to get comfortable. 

The sweetness of it all left Hershel breathless.

“Shall we?” Luke asked his guests. Pesto barked once and dove into her ‘dinner’ with gusto. She must have said something complimentary, because Luke looked pleased when he barked back, before turning to his other guests. “I’m sorry, I know it’s not polite to speak a language other people in the room don’t, but we aren’t cutting you out, she just doesn’t speak English in the traditional sense.” The boy paused for a moment.

“Did he? Well, I suppose we’ll have to take him off the guest list.” His little face looked so serious, Hershel’s heart turned over in his chest. What a darling, darling child. He knocked on the far wall of the kitchen. Luke jumped, relaxing when he found Hershel smiling at him.

“It’s time, already?” 

“Not yet.” Hershel admitted. The boy nodded firmly.

“You can have dinner with us, if you want. You can have Elaine’s spot. She didn’t tell me she was on a diet until just now, so we’re fighting.” Luke and Elaine were often fighting. At the end of one particularly memorable rant, he described her as “like Randall, but a lady” once, and Hershel had laughed for a full five minutes with delight.

“That’s very kind of you.” Hershel considered his options with trepidation. The small chair would likely hold his weight, but he wasn’t entirely sure he’d be able to stand up again before night. Moving the chair out of the way and kneeling was even less appealing. “I was thinking maybe we could go to my office early and sit together there.”

Luke pouted.

“You promised to play house last night, remember?”

“So I did, but I heard a rumor someone hasn’t eaten breakfast properly yet.” Hershel banked on his experience with the boy. He actually did enjoy playing house when he got wrangled into it some place he could sit comfortably, but he’d much prefer spending the time he had holding his boy. 

“I have to change clothes.” Luke informed him, after a moment of reflection. “This is good for playing, but I don’t really want to look like a housewife.” 

“Go on, then.”

As the boy changed back into his day clothes, Hershel gathered the truffles back up on the tray. He patted Pesto as he passed. She barked. They couldn’t speak, but he found it had never been necessary. They knew their parts.

When Luke returned, he was wearing an especially frothy, knee length dress. Made of cream lace and covered in ruffles, Hershel thought it suited him quite well. He smiled brightly up at Hershel, and closing his little hand on Hershel’s jacket, Luke pulled him along. 

* * *

Because the Professah got him early, Luke was already settled into the man’s lap with his pancakes before his radio show started. Usually, Monique or Rosa brought them in during the first commercial break. This Sunday, he was having banana and blueberry ones with heaps of cream. Picking up the heavy jug with both hands, he carefully poured syrup over them.

“It’s a wonder you don’t smell like sugar.” The Professah mused, resting his chin on Luke’s head as they waited for the show to start. It would be starting in a few minutes.

“Pesto says I do.” Luke inspected his meal before tipping on just a bit more and setting it down, careful not to get any on the Professah’s desk.

“That seems unhealthy.” 

Luke didn’t answer, just took a big, noisy bite of his pancakes, drenched in an unreasonable amount of cream and maple syrup more than bananas or blueberries. It touched his lips, and...

“Mm!” Luke’s toes curled in his shoes, and he wiggled a little. “Perfect!” The Professah hugged him tighter for just a moment. Luke beamed. He enjoyed being appreciated.

Sundays were wonderful. Even when he’d first moved in with the Professah, the man would let him sit in the office and play, but Luke much preferred pancakes and cuddles to playing on the floor. There were only so many times he could play the story of The Water Prince Meets The Rock King, peeking up at the Professah.

The radio didn’t hurt, either. Luke liked lots of radio shows, but his favorite was _Hoffman’s Adventures_. It was based on a book the Professah had gotten for him, but the version on the radio was very different and much happier than the novel. The Professah said German literature was like that sometimes.

He took another maple syrup soaked bite as the show started. The episode for today started with Hoffman going to Franz’s wedding to Swanilda, which Luke thought was nonsense. Swanilda had ridden unicorns and fought bandits. She was much too good for Franz, who was honestly kind of stupid, and anyway, Luke thought she and Coppelia were in love. He said as much.

“Perhaps, they’re using him so no one bothers them about it. Randall and I had a female friend that covered for us in school.” The Professah spoke up during a short musical piece to indicate a change of scene.

“Really?” Luke spoke through a mouthful.  
“It was a very long time ago.” The Professah murmured, thoughtfully. “We didn’t part on good terms, unfortunately.”

As the episode went on, it became very clear that Franz was trying to marry Coppelia, even though he was engaged to Swanilda who was so mad about it she broke into Coppelia’s house. Luke pouted. 

“This episode is dumb.” Luke complained aloud.

The Professah’s chest shook against his back with laughter, and Luke sighed dramatically. “They should ride unicorns into the forest together and leave Franz with Hoffman.”

“I thought you liked this show.” The Professah asked, amused. “All you do is complain.”

“I love it!” Luke cried, stricken. “It’s just wrong sometimes because the people writing it don’t know what they’re doing.”

“Alright, then, how would you do it? Other than the ladies running off together.” The Professah asked. Finally done with his pancakes, Luke turned in the man’s lap and nuzzled into the man’s chest.

“Franz and Hoffman get married. Then, Clara breaks off her engagement to Nat because he’s terrible and travels around with the Sandman, learning how to make sleep sand.” Luke decided.

“I seem to remember the Sandman in the novel feeding children’s eyes to owl monsters.” 

“He doesn’t do that now.” Luke mulled it over. “It doesn’t change my mind, though.”

Caught up in talking, Luke was startled when a crackly scream came over the radio.

“Coppelia! Coppelia, please I didn’t mean to do it!” Swanilda wepts. Luke jolted, focussed. “Please get up!”

“ _No._ ” Luke breathed. “It can’t be! She’s so nice!”

“She isn’t dead, girl.” It was an older man’s voice, craggy and cold.

“That’s Coppelia’s evil dad, Dr. Coppelius!” Luke repeated in a loud whisper. “What’s he doing there?” The Professah just petted his hair as he listened.  
“Wh-what do you mean?” Swanilda again, her voice confused but hopeful.

“I will show you. Step away.” The man answered, and there was a sound of shuffling feet. Something clicked loudly, metal scraped, then a loud chime as the host came on, reminding listeners to return next week. Luke groaned, draping himself over the chuckling Professah.

“You know what this means? I have to wait an _entire week_ to find out what happens.” The man’s hand twitched in his hair.

“That is a shame, isn’t it?” Luke looked up at him. The man was still smiling, but it was nothing like a moment ago. “I can guess at the reveal for you if you want.”

“Nope, it’s way more fun if I find out during the episode.” The suggestion was out of character for the Professah, who often reminded Luke not to skip ahead in books. He couldn’t help that he didn’t like reading for _ages_ just to find out everyone died at the end.

“I suppose that’s true, yes.” The man paused. “Have you tried out your new car yet? This would be a lovely day for it, now that your show is over.”

It was a clear, if gentle dismissal. There was an air that fell over the Professah sometimes, and Luke knew if he focused on it, the feeling would be heavy and sad. 

“I guess I could give it a try.” He kissed the man’s cheek and slid off his lap, whistling and watching Pesto in the corner perk up. She had been curled up there, watching over Luke as always. “Come on, Pesto!”

* * *

Luke had to get a maid to carry the car down from the playroom to the garden while he picked a copilot and got a couple pairs of sunglasses. Eventually, he decided on a hat too. He wasn’t going fast enough for a scarf and anyway, they wouldn’t go with his dress. He’d have to get a driving costume, if the car was fun.

The maid was waiting for him at the door and pointed out where she’d set down the car. He thanked her, running out to it with Pesto.

Luke sat Georgie, a stuffed cat with mismatched eyes, into the passenger’s seat and slipped one pair of sunglasses on him. He put on his pair and his hat, before climbing in, too.

“ _You sure about this thing, then, little’un_?” Pesto asked, suspicious. 

“Mm-hmm.” Luke tested the seats, which squished pleasantly. Good leather, too, he thought. “The Professah wouldn’t let me get hurt. He loves me too much.” He leaned up to pat her, but she didn’t relax.

“ _He’s been off for a while now. Ya keep an eye on him, alright? Might be hanging out with the skinny’un too much._ ” 

“Randall is-” Luke raised his glasses and looked around to check no one was around. “Mister Randall is a really nice man. Sometimes.”

Pesto tilted her head, her ears raised questioningly. She doubted him.

“Come on, don’t give me that look…” Luke scratched the spot behind her ear that made her leg jerk and sat back in his car. “Car time! Hold on, Georgie!”

Luke pedaled hard, and the car rolled into movement. It was okay, but it got a lot more fun when he started making car sounds. He and Pesto even raced on the walkway in front of the house. Soon, though, he remembered his mission.

Mister Randall liked the gardens, or maybe it was just the part of the estate he liked complaining about the most. He’d scared off all but their oldest and crustiest gardener, Mister Aloysius. Randall wasn’t actually allowed to kill staff without explicit permission, so the two men spent a lot of time cursing at each other. 

At this time of day, he should be stalking the grounds. Sure enough, as he pulled around the fountain, he found Randall with some garden shears concentrating _hard_ as he moved to prune a rose bush.

Luke bunched down and got ready. After a silent count of three, he threw himself into peddling as hard as he could, aiming for Mister Randall’s skinny legs. Mister Randall cried out when they collided with him hard enough to jostle Georgie.

“What the- _You!_ ” Randall spun around and put his foot on the bonnet of the car, shoving it back a small distance through the gravel and glaring.

“Hi!” Luke chirped, making no attempt to escape or pedal backwards. “You can’t tell on me because he already knows I was going to do this.”

Randall glared, an eyebrow twitching. He grasped the garden shears tighter in a shaking hand for several seconds, raising them. Several silent seconds passed. A faint pang of anxiety rang in Luke’s chest realizing what the man was thinking, but after a tense moment, he seemed to overpower the thought, his grip opening to clawed fingers and allowing the shears to drop harmlessly onto the path. His gaze softened.

Luke paused for several seconds. He knew the curse from the mask he and the Professah had messed around with in their youth had changed. It had made them how they were now, and he loved them, but…

Sometimes, it seemed pretty bad.

“I’m sorry.” Luke huddled down to try and hide behind the steering wheel. Mister Randall was a good friend, if a bit scary.

Randall took a deep breath, sighed, and rested his hand on top of Luke’s hat. 

“Kid.” His voice was quiet. It reminded Luke suddenly of the Professah, smiling sadly. “Get out of my sight.”

“I thought it was going to be funny... Sorry.” Luke said, feeling a tiny bit of guilt, reversing and driving away. Everyone was acting strange today, and he didn’t like it.

When he’d first moved in, they hid things from him. He understood why, but it reminded him a lot of that, like they were dealing with things he wasn’t allowed to know about. The Professah said they’d had an argument, though.

He puttered around a little more, but now that he’d accomplished his goal, it wasn’t as much fun. When he was deciding whether or not to go inside or not, he heard a strange scream from around outside the gate, one that echoed against the inside of his skull. An animal scream, and it didn’t sound like a cat or a dog or anything he’d ever heard before.

“ _Don’t do it!_ ” Pesto ordered, hurrying up to the car side and barking in his face. “ _We’ll go fetch Randall._ ” Luke listened closely to any unusual voices in the air, then felt that same scream within his head.

“Pesto, Randall will probably want to put the thing out of its misery.” Luke frowned, opening the car door and jogging towards where he heard it. “I’ll just get close so I can see what happened so we know who to ask for help.” She followed close at his heels. Luke hesitated when they made it to the gates.

Luke wasn’t allowed outside of the gates, alone. He wasn’t allowed to go anywhere alone. That was why the Professah had given him Pesto, but he’d never left the fence without the man at all, not once in eight years. Sometimes, he got to spend the day at Odile’s by himself, but he was dropped off there and had to take Pesto. He wasn’t allowed to go outside with Carmen on those days. 

Pesto nudged Luke’s hair with her nose. “ _There’ll be trouble if you’re caught going out.”_

“It won’t be too bad.” Luke murmured, nervous. He stared up at the tall iron gates. He always felt safe when he saw them from the car, but like this, they loomed ominously.

Still, he had to help whatever was struggling. Luke took a deep breath and poked his head out of the gate, his eyes widening as he saw a little fawn struggling in some wire. It was crying, obviously in pain. 

“It’s a baby deer, Pesto…” Luke breathed, stunned. He’d never seen one up close before. He glanced up and down the street and saw a woman dressed in yellow turn the corner onto another street. There was no one at all the other way, and the fawn was sobbing. Luke stood, hesitating at the gate.

“ _You could get the old man with the shears._ ” Pesto suggested, before turning tail and spotting Mr. Aloysius standing nearby with his shears. Pesto circled around Luke and began to herd him, nudging him in the gardener’s direction.

Mister Aloysius had been standing in that one spot with his garden clippers for a long time now, Luke realized. He didn’t seem like he’d been doing anything either. Maybe he wasn’t feeling well. Luke had noticed the garden looked a little overgrown. No wonder Randall was doing the gardening.

“Mister Aloysius?” Luke spoke up, Pesto sitting next to him and thumping her tail on the ground with concern. The man turned his old eyes down to the boy and his dog.

“Did you need something?” He spoke gruffly.

“There’s a baby deer trapped outside of the fence.” Luke folded his arms. “Can you help her? She’s got a wire around her leg.”

Mister Aloysius took a moment to ponder before nodding and setting his clippers down. “Whatever you wish.”

Luke exhaled in relief. Pesto got up to trot alongside the gardener as he opened the gate and moved towards the little deer . Pesto was there, and it was only _just_ outside the gate.

Nervously, Luke stepped out of the gate. A heavy sort of terror settled over him, but he kept his eyes on Pesto, who stood between himself and the gardener. She watched Mr. Aloysius warily as he began to free the deer. Luke moved closer, hoping to comfort the poor thing. 

“It’s well tangled. Take a minute to get it free.” The man said, holding the fawn’s shuddering leg in a dirty glove. Luke nodded.

“It’ll be a few minutes, and then, you’ll be ok.” He told the deer. “Please try and stay still, ok?” 

A crunch at the far end of the street drew Luke’s attention. The woman in yellow had come back around the corner, walking towards them. When she noticed Luke looking, she waved a little and turned back to a small book in her hands. He thought it might be a guide book, but it was strange that she wouldn’t react to the deer. 

Luke looked back to Mr. Aloysius. The fawn didn’t look anymore unstuck than she had when he’d started. Luke heard his thundering heartbeat in his ears and stepped back towards the gate.

It all happened at once. The woman exploded into motion, sprinting towards them. Luke turned, but she was already clapping a hand over his mouth. He bit on instinct, but his teeth closed on cloth. A faintly sweet taste filled his head. Luke thrashed. It was _wrong_ ; everything was wrong. They were taking him. They were _touching_ him. People weren’t allowed to just do that, only the Professah. He’d be furious. Luke hoped he was furious.

The woman wrapped an arm around Luke’s middle to pick him up, and he dug his short nails into her sleeve. He kicked her, but she just grunted.

Pesto barked and tried to bite the woman, but Mr. Aloysius punched her in the side. She yelped and turned on the man, catching his leg with her teeth. He kicked her until she let go as Luke screamed, muffled by the cloth. 

The man grabbed Pesto by the scruff and held her down. Luke couldn’t see what he was doing, everything blurry, but she stopped fighting just as everything went grey.

“Goddamn, this kid is heavy. He’s so short I thought it would be like picking up a baby, but he’s _dense_.”

“Quit bitching.” The man said, “I’m the one who almost got murdered by a dog.” She began to carry him away, and while Luke kept trying to fight, it felt like he was trying to swim through cement.

Suddenly, the woman laid him down in a dark place, still holding the cloth over his face until everything faded to nothing.


	6. Apostle of Mercy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luke wakes up in a cage and remembers his past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 6 Trigger Warnings  
> Kidnapped And Imprisoned Child  
> Animal Death (Discussed)  
> Both Implicit and Discussed Murder  
> Family Death

Luke woke shaking and disoriented. He fought to open his eyes as his stomach churned. The world was blurry, unrecognizable, but when his eyes started to adjust, it didn’t get anymore familiar. 

White. Everything was white or gold. The Professah would think it was gaudy, he thought. It was a minimalist living room, elegant in a very precise and gilded way, when it came completely into focus, but something else did, too.

He was in a cage. Luke bolted up, whimpering. His head hurt, and his stomach felt _awful_. He twisted around to find the cage door, but there was a heavy padlock on it. The boy screamed with rage and kicked it. Again and again, he kept going until his stomach panged, and he dropped down onto his back, tears in his eyes.

He rubbed his eyes and took stock. He didn’t feel good. He’d been drugged and kidnapped. His dress was torn and dirty from struggling. Someone had stolen his shoes, and all of his accessories were gone, too. Luke pushed up again.

The cage was big enough he might be able to stand up and move around a little. Or more likely, he was small enough to stand in it. He didn’t want to chance moving around too much until his stomach settled. The bottom had a thick padding, and there was a folded blanket in the corner. When Luke touched it, he scrunched his nose and pulled his hand away, repulsed. Scratchy. Disgusting.

The room outside the cage looked like a living room. There weren’t any pictures on the sterile white walls, but it was lit by a large crystal chandelier. The furniture and curtains were gold. A neat fountain pouring crystal water into a basin. The room was empty, Luke thought, empty and cold and clean. Nothing like home, with its rich colors and cushy antiques. 

The exits were a few open archways that lead to similarly soulless rooms, but one was a large, metal door, inlaid with delicate looking golden clockwork. As Luke leaned forward in his cage to squint and examine the detail, the gears began to shift, and the door split down the middle, folding away.

He'd expected someone like the Professah, refined and commanding. Instead, he looked like a bedraggled teenager, wearing a grease stained silk housecoat and holding a large mug. He had short, spiked, brown hair and dark eyes that mirrored Luke’s own. He seemed as startled to see Luke as Luke was to see him. The man dragged a long fingered hand through his hair.

“There’s no way I’d actually get this lucky, but please tell me you just like it in there, and those dumb assholes didn’t actually lock a child in a dog cage?” He spoke, bewildered, tapping his fingernails on the grey mug.

“Let me out!” Luke shouted, gripping the thin cage bars, wishing he could break them with his sheer seething rage. “I want to go home!” The man’s face twisted with sorrow.

“God, kid, I’m sorry.” The man placed his mug down on a square table, more of a solid block than anything. “My name’s Clive. I’ll get you out, and then we need to talk about some things. After-.” 

“I want the Professah! I want-” Luke’s voice wobbled, as a memory smashed through the haze. “He killed Pesto! Mister Aloysius killed Pesto!” He threaded his fingers in the bars of the nearest wall and pushed. It didn’t do anything. Tears welled up in his eyes. “She was just trying to protect me, and he killed my dog.”

“Oh, Jesus _fuck_ , Paul.” The man, Clive, looked genuinely horrified. “Look, I’m sure he just used something on her, like they did you, but I’ll go check for you, anyway, and get someone to start some lunch for you.”

Luke sniffled, looking away, and didn’t answer. After a moment, he heard the slap of bare feet as the man hurried away. Rubbing at his nose, the boy hoped the professah came soon. 

The room was deathly silent with the man gone. Luke hissed and tried to shake the bars, back and forth, thrusting his tiny muscles to try and wrench the bars open. Clive shortly re-entered holding a binder.

“Look, I talked to Paul,” Clive opened. “And he and Emmy both assured me your dog was moving when they left. In fact, Don bitched about it extensively. I get the impression he way underdosed her, and Emmy’s been razzing him about it.” 

Luke glared at him, even though he seemed genuine. He’d believe it when he saw. 

“And hey, peace offering?” A bag of candies were clutched in one of the man’s bony hands, and a binder was in the other. 

“It’s probably poison.” Luke sat down on the plush mattress. “You kidnapped, and now you’re going to poison me.”

“I know this must be scary for you.” Clive spoke sympathetically. “The whole situation is really bad. I get it. And where you were living, you must have seen a lot of that kind of thing, but we took you away to save you.”

“You guys killed my dog and kidnapped me! You stole my shoes and my ribbons! I’m in a cage!” 

“Your dog is fine, okay? Just listen. _He_ kidnapped you. We’re saving you. I’m sorry this was a bad experience, but this was the only way we could get you out in time.”

“Shut up! Shut up, I want to go home!” 

The man stalked close to the cage, and Luke flinched away. He poked his fingers in the slots, offering a tiny square of chocolate.

Luke crept close, watching carefully, but the fingers didn’t shift.

“Go on, peace offering.” He encouraged softly, wiggling it a little. “If you stop yelling, I give you more.” Luke shuffled up to the bars, examining the square of chocolate. It wasn’t artisan or specially crafted - obviously factory created. Disgusting. As for the man’s fingers, Luke wasn’t sure he was strong enough to break them with his hands so, quickly, he moved in close, and bit them as hard as he possibly could. 

“ _Motherfucker!_ ” Clive shouted, jerking his fingers out of Luke’s teeth and the cage. “Fucking goddamnit!” Luke smiled for just a moment, but he tried to keep his face a mean scowl. “Jesus Christ, that’s why they put you in there!”

“Mister Randall says I’m a genuine menace.” Luke decided the Professah would be proud of him. He might not have won, but he must have fought pretty well if they thought he needed caging. Clive laughed, uncertainly, and took a deep, steadying breath.

“Okay, look.” The man started, slowly sitting down cross-legged and a metre away from the cage. “I’m sorry, again, that this was necessary. I know that this is scary, and you probably don’t remember your family very well, so maybe you try to get the approval of those reprobates you live with, but we really were saving you.”

“I’m going to need the rest of that candy to listen to this.” Luke informed him. The Professah always reminded him to be patient and to assess things. He decided to think of this as information gathering. “And you can’t say anything mean about the Professah, or I’ll stop listening.” 

Clive sighed, put upon.

“How about I say completely factual things that make him look bad because he’s, you know, a fucking supervillain who kills people?” Luke opened his mouth to object, but he kept talking. “Don’t play dumb. I’d love for you _not_ to know better, but we both know he does things that are...” He waved at Luke’s dress.

“What’s wrong with my dress?”

“What isn’t? Look, my point is, I’m going to only say things I can prove. I even have the evidence on me. I think that’s fair.” Luke nodded, slowly. Clive decided to unwrap the bag of candy and slide it close to the cage so the poor boy could take little pieces to nibble on.

“People have been looking into Hershel Layton for a long time. He’s done a lot of evil shit.” Luke glared, and Clive huffed. “Illegal and violent things. Recently, the path of destruction’s been traced back to-” He pressed his hands into his face, suddenly. “Sorry, fuck. There was an accident almost a decade ago that killed some people.” 

Clive opened his binder - which Luke found was all colour coded by sticky notes. He turned to a particular page and held the book up to show the page.

It was a newspaper clipping with a bunch of pictures of people and one of burning wreckage. “There was an accident at a lab that killed a few people. One of them, this lady here with the scarf, was named Claire Folly. She was Layton’s girlfriend at the time.”

That’s why Luke recognized the name. She was pretty, and the soft smile on her face made her look really friendly. Luke frowned. A part of him was glad she wasn’t around anymore, Hershel spent too much time thinking about her, after all. Clive didn’t notice, moving to the next piece, still narrating. 

“Mr. Layton reacted… poorly.” Clive placed the binder down and turned some pages, pulling out a plastic sleeve. He showed it to Luke, before sliding it through the bars. Luke reluctantly took a piece of paper out of the sleeve to view it. One was just scolding the Professah about not showing up for work, with a seal from the University he’d earned his title from. The next two were letters in a familiar handwriting.

They were from the Professor to Luke’s dad. They were frenetic and rambling, the way he was in the middle of the night when he wasn’t feeling well. Mostly, they were awful. He talked about wanting to be dead, to be with Claire, in the first. In the second, though, he must have been really bad. He just kept repeating that he could ‘fix it’, and he’d ‘bring Claire home.’ Luke looked back up at Clive.

“Sounds like raving, right? But then, we found these.” Clive leafed through the binder to show another newspaper clipping, this one was about a museum theft. Someone had taken a library’s worth of ancient texts, and this time Luke recognized the photo. 

It was one of the only times he’d even been scolded. He had been young, about seven years old, perhaps. He’d been playing with some of his stuffed animal friends, and when the Professah left for a moment to talk to someone, Luke decided to snoop. He’d found the book from the picture, musty and massive, tucked away in the desk. The Professah got angry, when he caught him. He didn’t yell or get mean. He’d just very quietly, very coldly told Luke to get out.

He had never snooped after that.

“There are copies of those texts, usually translations. This is part of that particular tome.” This one was a page, covered with an inscription in strange characters from an ancient language Luke did not understand. “It’s instructions for a ritual to bring someone back from the dead. To pull it off, though, you need someone who has genuine… abilities. Psychics, witches, doesn’t matter what they call themselves, as long as they have power. Someone like you.”

Luke was about to raise his voice when suddenly, a blond man began to shuffle in holding a folded napkin. 

“Mr. Dove, sir, I got a sandwich made for the kid you got…” He spoke shyly. He was intimidated. Luke’s eyes rose once he heard mention of _food,_ but saw it was only a tiny pathetic napkin wrapped sandwich.

“Just drop it in the bars, kid will bite your fingers if you’re not careful.” Clive requested. And indeed, the man hurried over to drop it over the cage. It landed flat on the bars above Luke, who puffed his cheeks but reached up with his hand to pull the napkin down.

As he unwrapped it, he noticed the napkin was made of expensive linen cloth. The sandwich looked pathetic, so he ignored it, to inspect the embroidered napkin. It was the first thing that was halfway quality he’d seen yet today, but his eyes widened when he saw a golden gear logo and the phrase _HEAVEN THROUGH CLOCKWORK_ stitched in shining gold thread. 

“You’re the Clockwork Apostle!” Luke jabbed a finger at him, a fierce expression in his eyes. “ _You’re_ the one who’s been trying to stop everything the Professah’s been doing, and now you’re holding me hostage!”

“I’m-” The Clockwork Apostle certainly looked younger and significantly grumpier than Luke had imagined. He had imagined a jolly old man type. The man buried his face in his hands and spoke, his voice muffled. “I’m _rescuing_ you.”

“No, you kidnapped me!”

“The professor kidnapped _you_ and did something with your parents!” Clive shouted, furiously turning the pages of his binder until he found another news article. _Misthallery Family Missing_ , it read over a picture of Luke and his parents so old he didn’t remember it being taken.

“Shut up! Shut up! You’re lying! You’re just holding me hostage!”

“I haven’t lied to you, I promise. You know that. You wouldn’t be upset like this, if you didn’t believe.”

“You are _lying to me_.”

“They never found the bodies, kiddo. They never found anything. No until we found you. Do you remember what happened? Why aren’t you with them, if he didn’t do it?”

“They got sick and went to the hospital!” Luke shouted, distraught. “And-- and then they-”

“What were they sick with? They’re considered missing person cases, Luke, they never made it to a hospital.” Clive asked. “Did they have an accident? Couldn’t have been a car accident, the car was found intact. What did he tell you happened? I bet I can tear it to shreds, kid. We both know it’ll be bullshit.”

“It was a sudden sickness.” Luke repeated, starting to cry. “He just- He said it just came on suddenly, and that the people at the hospital couldn’t help them.”

“That’s all? That’s his story? Why didn’t he call the police, the ambulance? Why did he just take you without telling anyone? Luke, what _really_ happened when you met?” 

“ _Shut up_ !” Luke shouted, the chandelier rattling above them. “Shut up! You don’t know us! You don’t know _anything_ ! We’re in _love!_ ”

Clive flinched away, holding his head. When he opened his eyes again, one of the blood vessels had burst, painting a small red stain on his right eye.

“Alright, fuck. Alright.” He stood, tucking his binder under one arm. “I’ll go, but think about what I said, okay? And Luke...”

“What.” The boy hissed, seething.

“The accident that killed Miss Folly, it killed my folks too. I wasn’t as young as you were, but I was still pretty young. I was devastated.” Luke didn’t answer. Clive laughed, uncertainly. “It’s funny, you know, the Professor, he probably saved my life that day. It’s part of how I ended up like this, and I’ve always felt… I don’t know, responsible for him? I know it seems like I’m the enemy here, but I really am trying to help.”

With that, Clive was gone, forgetting his still steaming coffee mug. 

Luke bit his lip, hands pressed into his face. He’d used too much power today, but he couldn’t stay here. He turned on the lock.

It knocked around wildly, but no matter how much Luke put into it, it wouldn’t open. He was starting to cry, head feeling like he’d pricked a dozen needles into his skull, but he moved onto the hinges of the door. Then, he tried the corners. The metal of the cage rang and rattled, but it held up against him too.

A special boy, a treasure, the Professah called him but he couldn’t even get himself out of a simple cage. No one was even watching him now that Clive had left. Tears streamed down his face as he glared balefully at the sandwich the man had given him before going into his room. 

One, single sandwich and they hadn’t even cut it. All it had on it was mashed bananas. It was a _crime,_ and Luke couldn’t do anything about it. His earlier confidence deflated every moment he was stuck here.

Where was the Professah? Would he be mad? Luke hadn’t meant to leave the gates. Surely being kidnapped didn’t violate the rules. He hoped Pesto was okay, hoped she wouldn’t be angry at him, either.

He fretted and picked at his absolute travesty of a meal. He knew he was avoiding the things Clive said about the Professah. It wasn’t true, he thought, and doubting it now would just make him feel guilty when the man swooped in to save him, even if he was late.

That was the hardest part of sitting in the silence though, wondering how long it would take him to notice Luke was missing. The boy was starting to realize that he didn’t really do anything. He played and ate and went to classes. The only person that would miss him was the Professah, and the only reason he had to look for him was that he loved Luke.

 _‘To pull it off, he’d need someone like you.’_ Clive had said. Luke threw the sandwich down and went back to the lock. Gathered up everything he had, every scrap he could reach, and threw it all at the cage door. Luke grimaced when his head panged, the color draining out of his vision. The metal was still reverberating when he passed out.

* * *

The night he first saw the Professah started out very normal. Mum took him upstairs at six for bedtime, and Dad patted his head goodnight, before he went. She told him a story as she tucked him in and kissed his head before she left. He didn’t go to sleep straight away, but that happened a lot. Luke struggled at night. He could feel a restless sleep filled with all sorts of awful visions waiting for him. Mum burned the incense in his room to help keep them suppressed, but she always extinguished it before he went to sleep, so he gripped his bunny and laid, staring up at the dark ceiling in terror.

His ears pricked up when he noticed there was a _conversation_ happening downstairs. He blinked and sat up, sliding out of his bed and pulling his blue stuffed rabbit by the ear behind him. It was strange to have visitors so late. Misthallery was a daylight town - people went to bed almost as the sun set, and woke with the sunrise. Everything closed by dinner except Patty’s and the inn. Luke decided to investigate, standing on his tippy toes to turn the doorknob.

Dad’s voice drifted up the stairwell, coming from the parlour. He sounded excited. Luke moved down the corridor and began to move on his tippy toes at the sides of the steps, pulling his rabbit behind him. He could see a stranger’s back in the doorway, a short man wearing a top hat. Luke chanced another couple of steps, starting to suck his thumb, an instinct he hadn’t really managed to shake.

The stranger’s voice reminded Luke strangely of distant thunder, low but carrying. It filled the space around him.

“I _am_ sorry to be intruding so late, Clark. I didn’t realize I would be arriving quite so late. I’d be happy to go to the inn and impose myself on you and your lovely wife in the morning instead.” 

Dad laughed.

“Not at all, Hershel. Please make yourself at home. It’s a shame, though, you just missed Luke by half an hour. You’ll have to stay so you can meet him properly in the morning.” Dad said. Luke’s angle let him to see Dad stroking his beard. “The last time we were all together, he was just a baby.” 

“Another thing for which I ought to apologize, I’m afraid.” Hershel said. “I was busy with the university and then, with Claire...” He shook his head, chasing the thought away. “I do appreciate you coming to check on me. I don’t know how I would have survived that first month without you, but afterward, I didn’t know what to do except bury myself in my work. I’ve only just started to dig myself out.”

“I know. Dr. Schrader said he’s hardly seen you last time he wrote. Said you’d been teaching yourself a new specialization and a new language every time he saw you. Busy enough you forgot classes, even.” Dad sounded concerned, but Hershel just chuckled.

“An exaggeration, if a kind one.” He looked a bit sheepish. “I’ve been considering resigning from my position, I’m sure Delmona is sick of me by now.” 

Dad clapped the man’s shoulder, leading him into the living room as they continued to talk. Luke took the last few steps at a glacial pace so they didn’t creak, but Mum came around the corner just as his foot touched the floor. She raised her brows at him, and he took his thumb out of his mouth.

“Mum, there’s a man here.” Luke informed her. She nodded, relaxing.

“You’ll meet him in the morning. He’s an old friend of your father’s. Apparently, he’s very clever.” She said it as if she didn’t quite believe it. “He’s honestly a bit odd.” Mum told him, conspiratorially. “And anyway, he’ll be here in the morning for you to interrogate, Duckling, so it’s time to get back in bed.” 

Luke pouted but offered her his hand as he led him back upstairs.

“Is your incense helpful, love?” Mum asked gently as she ushered the boy back into bed, lifting him up and laying him back down. Luke’s eyes went to the stick she’d extinguished. He couldn’t smell it anymore.

“‘s all gone. Relight it please?” Luke asked as Mum tucked him in, shuffling his blue rabbit up to his cheek. 

“Well. I’m sure it’s in the air still, you’ll be able to sleep free.” Mum leaned down and kissed his forehead, pulling the covers back up. “I love you, Duckling.”

“I love you too, mum…” Luke murmured, knowing very well that his sleep would not be free. She left the room and closed the door. 

And then, his eyes closed too.

A scream that echoed through his whole body, visceral and agonized, as cold white light tore through a distant figure. Then he was being held gently. A warm embrace, as he buried his face in soft fabric. Tall corridors with windows to dozens of different painted landscapes. A red ribbon around a white box, a tag indicating it was his. A faint kiss on the forehead from someone who wasn’t his mother. Plush rabbits and broken glass, a garland of purple flowers around mother’s neck, her eyes filled with terror. A blue crystal resting in father’s skull. A blackened corpse, burned from the inside out. Blood running through wooden groves, the flowerbeds have bones beneath the soil. A blood rose garden.

Luke sat up. The birds were chirping, the sun was peeking through his heavy curtains, and Mum hadn’t woken him up. She always woke him up and told him he needed to stop sucking his thumb, then she patted his head and told him good morning with a little laugh.

He slid out of bed and immediately ran downstairs to try and find Mum or Dad, his little feet unhindered by the cold floorboards. The parlour was empty. Even Doland wasn’t around, neither was Beth. Luke slowed and toddled past a grandfather clock, looking up at the clock face. He couldn’t read what it said, no one had ever taught him, but he knew grown-ups went to look at it to check the time.

Luke sucked his thumb and wandered into the bathroom, opening a closed door and saw no one. But as he made it into the kitchen, he saw the stranger from the previous night, washing his hands at the sink. He shuffled back to peek at him around the frame. He wasn’t _shy_ , but it was a stranger, and he still hadn’t found anyone else.

The man shut off the water and dried his hands with a dishcloth left on the counter. He turned and smiled at Luke when their eyes met.

“Hello, Luke.” The man greeted, his voice hoarse. He looked even more tired than he had the night before and very sad. “We were never properly introduced. My name is Hershel Layton. I’m a professor at Gressenheller University. I was a friend of your father’s.”

“Where is dad? And Mum, she didn’t wake me up today...”

“I’m very sorry. They’re just in the hospital right now, but I’m not entirely sure that they’ll recover.”

“What?” Luke whispered. “Why are they in the hospi-tell?”

Mister Layton hummed for a brief moment. “They took very ill, very suddenly.”

“Uh-oh.” Luke stuck his thumb back in his mouth. Mum had been in hospital before, once. Luke had gone once, too, after he had an accident tripping down the stairs because he had to get his ankle checked. It took forever, though, so Mum and Dad must still be getting checked. “Are they coming home soon?”

“I suppose you’re a bit too young to understand.” Mister Layton frowned. He stepped close and knelt down, resting his hand on Luke’s shoulder. “My boy, I’m afraid your parents won’t be coming home for a while.”

“Oh.” Luke said. “Do I have to live at the hospital?”

“Actually, I thought it would be best for you to come live with me, but first, how about I make breakfast?”

Luke took a moment to ponder, before nodding once. 

* * *

The Professah’s house was very nice during the day, full of pretty paintings and squishy chairs. At night though, especially after a nightmare, Luke didn’t like it at all. The Professah said he just needed to give it time, since he’d only been living there a couple of weeks. Still, he thought it was creepy.

The worst part wasn’t even how dark and unfamiliar it was. It was empty at night. Too big, too quiet. After he’d woken up in the middle of the night, he took his stuffed bunny to go look for a grown up, but they’d been walking for ages and still hadn’t found the Professah. 

Luke reached the end of the hall he was walking in and found it split. He looked around the first corner, and it looked just like the corridor he’d just walked through. There was light coming out from behind one of the doors on the other side, and Luke decided to try that one first.

After a moment of hesitation, he knocked on the door.

“Luke?” It was the Professah’s voice, sounding confused. “Come in.”

The door squeaked as Luke pushed it open, peeking through the gap in the door. “You forgot to light the incense, and I had a bad dream.”

The Professah was sitting at his tall desk with a fountain pen and a set of paperwork. He’d been doing an awful lot of that recently. He frowned. 

“I’m sorry, Luke. I’m working on something at the moment, but I’ll take you back to bed as soon as I’m done, alright?” 

Luke’s lip wobbled, and he began to sniffle and squeeze his bunny tighter. The Professah’s eyes softened, and he sighed.

“Come in.”

Luke hurried through the door and closed it behind him, and up to the Professah’s side. The man looked down for several slow moments, but lifted the boy up to place on his lap.

Luke felt safer now that he was with a grown-up. The Professah wasn’t quite as soft as Mum, but he was warm and more open to snuggling than Dad. The boy shifted a little to get comfortable and peered down at the page the Professah was working on. It looked like a letter.

 _“Salutations, Dean Delmona._ ” Luke read slowly, leaning over and squinting. His reading wasn’t very good, even if his maths were, but it was harder because the Professah wrote in small, loopy letters. “ _This… letter is to in-- inform you of my…”_

“Are you only just learning to read?” The Professah spoke kindly. lifting the pen to let Luke try to read the rest.

“ _Res… igg… nation.”_ Luke read aloud. His eyes scanned the rest of the page before he leaned back into the man’s chest, glancing up. “You use a lot of big words.”

“Indeed I do.” The Professah sighed and continued to write.

Luke watched the words flow onto the page from the man’s pen. His handwriting looked like it was from a storybook. Luke almost felt bad for bothering him, but he never seemed to mind when Luke had bunches of questions.

“Sooo…” Luke squeezed his stuffed bunny. “What does rez-igg-nashun mean?”

“It means, in this case, to leave your position.” The Professah spoke as he continued to write, a faint sadness in his voice. “I’ve decided it’s about time I moved on from my position in the university.”

“You won’t be a professah anymore?” 

“Not anymore.” The Professah dotted his letter with a neat dollop of ink from his fountain pen. “I was hoping to at least make tenure, but it’s occurred to me I’ve done what I wanted to do regarding my archeological career.”

Luke watched him sign the letter and push it away slowly, and the boy suddenly found the Professah’s arms wrapping around his torso and his chin resting in his hair, almost like how the boy was snuggling his own stuffed rabbit. Whenever he was allowed to sit on Mum or Dad’s knee, they never hugged him like this, but the Professah wasn’t like them in a lot of ways. “Would you mind if we stayed here for a bit longer, Luke? You could tell me about your nightmare.”

The boy began to tremble and bite his lip at the memory, shaking his head. The fear seeped in again. “I… I dreamed there were men in masks with knives, and they hurt people. Really bad.”

“Oh, poor dear, that _is_ a horrid dream.” The Professah squeezed him closer. His voice was deep enough Luke could feel it in his back, and the dulcet way he spoke was helped soothe Luke’s nerves. 

“And- and, it means that because the incense wasn’t burning, it’s happening in real life in a week…” Luke sniffled and rubbed his eyes. The Professah took his chin to tilt his head up, sympathy in his dark eyes.

“Luke, my dear, I give my word that no harm will come to you.” The Professah whispered.

“But wh- what about the people getting hurt?” 

“I can’t do anything for strangers, but you will be safe. ” The man took a finger to boop Luke’s nose, who blinked. “And if you foresee that you _will_ be harmed, I will rewrite that future into something nicer, I promise you.”

“Thank you, Professah Layton.” Luke whispered, looking up at the man with wide eyes. Dad had never made promises like that. He just said that Luke should go back to bed, he’d feel better in the morning.

The Professah gently let go of his chin and frowned. Luke worried he’d done something wrong. Had he bothered the man too much?

“If I ever do something to make you… uncomfortable…” The Professah sighed deeply. “Please tell me.”

“Okay, Professah.” Luke said and received a soft kiss on the forehead. Warmth blossomed in his chest and spread out all over, and he let his eyes close.

When the Professah pulled away, he just looked a bit sad. Luke was about to say something, when he had his head patted with a sigh.

“Are you alright to put yourself to bed, Luke?”

“You need to light the incense.”

“Well then.” The Professah stroked the boy’s head and slid his chair back to let him hop down onto the ground. “I’ll put you back to bed.”

Luke held his hand out for the older man to take, having his little hand held within the man’s much larger one. As he looked up at the man’s eyes, The Professah gazed down with him with a familiar look that reminded him of his parents on the days they danced together in the parlour.


	7. Angel of Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hershel does his own legwork to rescue Luke, and Randall goes with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 7 Trigger Warnings  
> Graphic Violence  
> Explicit Murder  
> Minor Character Death  
> Torture (Mentions, Blades)  
> Human Dissection  
> Implied forced wetting

Metaphysical power was a rare blessing that Hershel had not received in any measure, but all the same, there were ways, particularly when one had access to someone who did have power. One of those options was to enchant an item, in this instance a compass, and the air smelled like ozone when he passed it through the candle flame to bring it to life. 

A sigil spelling Luke’s name had been etched into the underside of the case and connected to his own name in sigil tattooed at the base of Luke’s spine. Now, the mark consumed the fire, glowing for a moment before fading back into brass. The reaction was disheartening the first time he’d tried this, but tests had proven that meant it worked.

“Maybe he doesn’t want to be found,” Randall joked, loitering nearby instead of doing something helpful. They were both kitted in their full costumes, though Hershel’s sword cane tucked into his overcoat and Randall’s was staying home. He couldn’t be trusted to stay focused on stealth while he had it with him. “It’s not like we can ask the dog.” Hershel opened the compass, ignoring him. “Shit, maybe it’s a sign. He’s finally escaped you.”

“North of here. Get in the car, we’re going to see Mulberry.”

“Ooh, new toys?” Randall spoke in his sing-song tone. “Not usually a gun guy, but the ones you don’t want me to play with are always worth expanding my comfort zone.” Hershel didn’t say he hated Randall. He didn’t; it wasn’t in him to hate old lovers, even one so changed. There were times, though, that he wanted to kill the man with his bare hands.

“You’re not worried at all then?” He spoke coldly, as he left to enter the hallway. Randall stayed on his heels.

“Not really? He’s with the Clockwork Asshole, and that one guy who makes skin suits instead of just peeping in windows like a normal pervert, and the Saphique Jaune who might actually be a good person. None of them are going to hurt your tiny boyfriend. He’d probably be better off. Heroes aren’t like  _ us _ .” After a knowing look Hershel didn’t acknowledge, Randall continued. “Unless you meant worried about something else?” 

“I don’t think you understand what you’re implying, and I’d thank you to stop.”

“Are you more pissed off that someone else has him or that they might fuck up your plans?”

“ _ Randall.” _ He stopped in the hall, his tone was warning. A maid further down the hall took her mop and bucket, skittering into another room.

“No. I’m the one who’s going to have to deal with your bullshit when this kid fucking dies, and you need to know that I’m not taking a fucking moment of it. I want you to remember that this was how you reacted when you had a chance to stop handed to you on a silver platter.” Randall grit his teeth.

“Why not stop me then?” Hershel grumbled. “If you’re so concerned?”

“I’m not,” He said, as if Hershel couldn’t tell he was lying. Randall and Luke had a strange relationship but also a very fond one. “It’s your life and your kid. I just work here.”

“You’re wasting time to irritate me, then.”

“I just think if you loved him, you’d give him the option to escape the complete fuckery of his life, instead of ruining it every time the choice comes up.”

Hershel walked away from him, and Randall followed in relative silence the rest of the way to the car. Hershel let him drive without comment. After all, Randall knew his way to the toy store. More importantly, when they arrived, he knew how to slip in the back and requisition what they were here for. He only took a few minutes to duck in and out of the store with a couple of full size violin cases and tossed them in the back. Now armed, Hershel started to guide Randall with the compass until they came to manor just at the north edge of the city. 

He really should have known this was the home of the Clockwork Apostle, he thought. Massive and snowy white, it looked like exactly the sort of place the Apostle would choose. The gate was locked but unguarded.

The compass was one of the few items he’d made himself, but by no means was it the only magical item he owned. His archeological pursuits had him unearthing and discovering all sorts of enchanted artifacts, including an invisibility pendant he routinely wore, as he did now, which was part of his business kit. 

He also carried a set of Skeleton Keys, made from bone and carved to a wafer thin shape, and dug them out of an inside coat pocket. Able to manipulate metal, they could easily open any physical lock if one knew which key to use and how to operate it. Hershel uttered a soft incantation over them and carefully chose the key for a fortress. He pressed it into one of the bars where the metal enveloped it like water, and he twisted. The lock clicked above his head. When he rested his hand on the gate this time, it glided open. Randall had assembled the guns while he worked and handed one to him. Hershel split the drum out of the gun and tucked it in his coat.

“Alarms, do you think?” Randall quietly asked Hershel. “He used to do up the banks.”

“Maybe. We’ve never found him before, but he must know we’re looking.” Hershel scanned the grounds. “Would you like to start in the back?” Randall nodded, and they split off.

Sneaking into places in the middle of the day had become something of talent. People tended to lock things up much tighter overnight, after all. He fingered his pendant, flipping it. Cold washed over him. He wasn’t fully invisible; shards of displaced light shimmered in the air as he moved. He’d never found anything that could render invisibility as well as he’d liked, but the amulet, with its additional ability to repel attention, was the next best thing. He despaired a little that he no longer had quite the physique he’d had when he was younger, but he was still shorter than most people, let alone most other men, which helped him evade detection. 

Hershel crept along the house, until he found a small side door. He unsheathed the blade tucked in his coat sleeve, and using the same Key, he slipped inside. As he entered a hallway, he shut the door behind him and turned to observe the decor. It was gaudy, he thought, slinking along the walls slowly to keep down the noise. Too much gold, and it was too empty. It felt like a hospital, sterile and cold.

A young maid stepped out of a door in front of him, and he froze, breathing softly. The woman hummed cheerfully, pulling the door shut. Slithering close, Hershel frowned. She spooked, turning her head a degree as the knife slid into her throat. Hershel caught her gurgling body and slowly lowered her to the ground, blood already pooling at their feet. It wasn’t something he liked doing. Killing so intimately turned his stomach, particularly an innocent woman. A relic of his gentleman days, he thought, but the less variables he juggled, the better his chances of success. 

Hershel peeked carefully into the room she’d left and found nothing. He kept looking. When he reached stairs, he took them. He heard familiar voices and pressed into a shadowed doorway to try and see.

“My damn hand still hurts. I think that dog is possessed.” A scratchy, older voice grumbled, sitting at a low table. A short stout man with angled crescent slicked black hair and a purple coat. Don Paolo, gentleman thief and expert in espionage. 

“It’s probably infected.” A woman wearing a masquerade mask and a yellow coat, white stockings and wavy, chestnut hair down to her waist. Saphique Jaune, an expert in hand to hand combat.

Hershel wished he was the sort of man who cursed. Paolo was practically useless in combat, more of a reconnaissance agent for the loose association of heroes. God knows how many times he’d been sneaking around in one of those skinsuits and got by undetected. Saphique Jaune, though, had almost broken Hershel’s jaw once during a heist when she’d first come onto the scene, and he’d never forgotten. She’d apologized for it a month later, asking him gently if he was in some kind of trouble. Apparently, they’d met unmasked at some point. She recanted not long after that. Since then, she’d been actively trying to hunt him down and murder him. She had yet to have any success. 

"I’d be less angry about this if I didn't think we were wasting our time. I'm not saying we should let a child be sacrificed because of the Professor’s delusions, but I doubt Clive will be able to fix the brat. We’ll just be forced to hunt him down in a couple of years, as well.”

“ _ Paul! _ ” She objected. “It’s a kid. You don't know that. He's just scared right now. He probably thought we were… well. He must have a pretty morbid imagination, now.” They both went quiet. Contemplating the horror of Luke’s life Hershel assumed with some amusement. He wondered what they’d think if they could see Luke’s playroom.

A woman’s distant scream shattered the silence. Hershel jumped as the scream echoed again, louder this time. His eyes closed for a brief second as he realized Randall must’ve forgotten this was meant to be quick and quiet.

“That wasn’t the kid.” The Saphique Jaune said, springing up from her chair and sprinting out of the room. Don moved too, if a bit slower, in a different direction. Hershel followed him, suspecting the man was going to tend to the real prize.

Following the slouched shuffling man with his semi-invisible amulet still gripped, Hershel briefly hoped the man’s eyesight was poor, hiding the shimmering outline. As Paul specialized in hyper-detailed suits, he doubted he would be so fortunate. 

He did wonder what made the man take up hero work under the name Don Paolo, though, especially against him. Such talents wasted. He could be doing much more interesting things, heists came to mind, but there he was, “protecting the world from darkness” _.  _ It wasn’t darkness _ ,  _ it was just  _ business. _

Eventually, Paul stopped by a tall clockwork door. The mechanism was intricate, but it opened for the man when he poked a particularly large fine toothed gear. The gears slid and ticked pleasantly even when idle. Hershel was quick to slip in behind the man, but Hershel’s eyes widened when he saw his poor boy in a  _ dog cage  _ of all things, on the floor. He still wore the once lovely dress he’d worn the last time Hershel saw him, now soiled with yellow stains and torn.

“Don’t start.” Paul snapped when poor Luke pushed himself up off the greyish pink mattress in the cage.

“Let me out! Please, let me out!” Luke wept, grabbing the cage bars. He looked  _ exhausted _ . “Please, I just want to get home.”

“I said,  _ don’t start _ .” Paul snapped, raising Hershel’s blood pressure in four words. “Who do you think put you in there?”

“ _ You _ !” Luke shouted, pointing a finger out through the cage. “You pretended to be Mr. Aloysius! You killed my dog!” 

“For the last time, I did  _ not _ kill it, but frankly I’m starting to wish I had.” Paul grumbled more, before he tried to pick up the cage by a handle on the top. “Come on, you’re coming with me.”

It wasn’t totally unexpected that they might hide the child. Hershel readied himself to follow Don further, but Luke quickly hit the top of the cage with a backhand that forced Don to let go. “No! I’m not going with you or anyone but the Professah!”

“Foolish child, if there’s anyone doing that ritual for Ms. Folly, it’s me!” Don announced. In the corner, Hershel’s eyes widened. He slipped his hand into his coat for his gun, just as a rumble went through the house and a massive crash. The sound of a distant automatic started up. He sighed. Randall had summoned the Clockwork Apostle, with one of his massive mechanical suits. He’d take advantage of the distraction, inching closer. Hopefully, Randall would be able to deal with it.

“That’s Clive’s machine, isn’t it?” Luke whispered.  _ Clive’s machine.  _ Hershel’s clever boy, The Clockwork Apostle had a first name and an address after so long. “The Professah’s come to get me, hasn’t he?”

“He’d better not have, I need to do that ritual before he manages!”

Hershel bolted the last few feet, pulling the revolver as Don turned and putting a hole in his chest, and another. When he fell, Luke’s eyes widened and he covered them. He touched the brim of his hat, revealed and shamed by his thoughtless haste. He’d tried for so long to keep Luke away from that sort of thing. The boy shook, eyes still covered. Hershel stepped over the man drowning in his own blood to kneel in front of the cage. A moment to find a key, and he had the door open.

“Luke, darling.” He said, reaching in to take one of the boy’s small hands. Luke wrenched them away from his eyes to throw them around Hershel’s neck. He sniffled and hiccuped into Hershel’s shoulder, and he held the boy tightly, moving to stand. “I’m sorry I frightened you, but we need to leave quickly. The Apostle’s in one of his machines.”

“I bit him really hard.” Luke told him, voice hoarse with exhaustion and lingering fear. “He wouldn’t let me out. All I wanted was to leave.”

“I know, dear boy. We’ll get you home. Hopefully, before Randall gets himself murdered by a fifteen foot angel.”

* * *

No matter what he’d said before they got in the car, Randall wasn’t actually very interested in the gun. As soon as Hershel was out of eyeshot, he split it into the stock and drum and tucked it in his coat. Truthfully, he was hoping he wouldn’t have to use it. He’d been shot at enough this week. His preferred way of dealing with gunfights was to find a way to duck out quickly - he’d seen many, many henchmen who attempted to shoot back before finding cover and wound up riddled with countless bullets. He wasn’t going to be one of them.

He picked a low window on the back of the house to crawl through, finding himself in a small bedroom. Was it a cliche to think he was getting too old for this kind of thing? His memory only went back eighteen years, but his body remembered everything he’d put it through vividly. Still, he moved silently through the halls with ease.

He aimed himself away from where he thought the kitchen was, hoping to loop through the outside rooms. Kitchens tended to be occupied all day in houses like this, so it was better to get an idea of the layout first. They also tended to have the cellar doors.

The kid probably wasn’t on the first floor, so as tradition demanded, he would go down, since he was better able to fight his way out, while Hershel, who had been stealther when he was more active, went up. He could usually cover more ground, even without Randall’s habit of getting  _ distracted _ .

Randall had never had the strength to stop himself. He’d woken up at the bottom of that chasm clutching the mask and immediately set about fashioning himself a weapon. The mantle of a malicious god, forgotten but very much alive in his mind, and he’d spent the first 10 years he could remember as a nameless masked terror haunting the countryside and carrying out its will through random acts of sheer brutality and violence.

Hershel, though, Hershel had willpower. Randall hated him sometimes. He was awful, abhorrent. Randall had an excuse for some of his deviancy, but where he’d fallen, Hershel had jumped. He’d even spent years as a normal person. Not perfectly nor happily, but he’d done it. Now he was a monster of his own making, killing indifferently and ruining a child that he claimed to love. 

Randall couldn’t imagine keeping it together well enough to be normal and hadn't bothered to try.

He wasn’t sure if the old strategy would hold. It had been a couple of years since Hershel had done any real legwork himself, but he’d probably just bomb the city if the plan fell through. Or, Randall admitted to himself, his better sense would reassert itself and he'd sweep the kid off for some gross honeymoon to silently apologize for planning to torture him to death via magic. Randall didn’t approve of the relationship, but he couldn’t say it was the worse of the two options. 

He put it out of his mind, hearing someone walking nearby. He focused, pulling himself in close, to move carefully and press up to a curtain. A blond man, lean and wearing dirty overalls, was carrying a heavy bag, followed by an old woman with a very breakable neck.

“Thank you for bringing it in for me.” She said. “Haven’t the strength to do it myself these days.” The young man laughed cheerfully.

“No problem at all, Ma’am. You show me where you want this one, and I’ll put it up for you.” Randall traced the man’s joints, imagined slitting each one and pulling them apart. He blinked, forcing himself to focus. Recurring violent temptations were just a regular part of his life. He’d learned to live with it.

“A sweet boy.” She patted Blondie’s arm, and they walked past where Randall was ducked down. “Just set it by the sink. The young master has his guests so I’ll be needing half of it by dinner.” Randall stepped into the hall behind them, following slowly. 

He could catch the guy as he made his way back from the drop off. Blondie was all slim muscle, but Randall was armed, experienced, and stronger than he looked. Coming from the front, he could slide a knife up in the throat. If he braced the kid’s neck from behind, he might be able to lodge it between the skull and spine. It would be quick. 

It wasn’t very fun, though. Not as much blood as you’d expect from a neck wound and very quiet. Hitting one of the veins in the side was much more satisfying. He dwelled on those thoughts.

He stalked them through the hallway, mind turning to viscera. The woman would be a wash once he caught her, but Blondie probably had beautiful innards, healthy and young as he was. The colors inside the human body were uniquely vivid, he felt. Searing yellow fat, the whole swath of blood red, wet pink intestines. A geode that when split open revealed stunning breathtaking innards.

Everything that caught his eyes was a weapon. A lamp was a bludgeon, a vase made of fat shards of glass. When his eyes caught tall swords displayed on one of the walls, he thought that Hershel might like it. He thought that _ he _ might like them. He’d stolen on jobs before, but instead, he continued to follow the pair, reaching into his coat.

The two finally got to their destination. Like the rest of the house so far, the kitchen was snow white, from ceiling to the tiles, with golden decor. He thought Clockwork Fuckwad might be taking his theming a little too seriously. There was shuffling and thumps, as the man finished helping her.

They chatted a little. While the man shifted his weight from foot to foot just inside of the doorway just up the hall, Randall watched him from the shadows. Finally, he spun on his heel and moved out into the hall. Randall’s nostrils flared, and he counted his steps. Two, three, one more. He stepped into the hall and in one graceful choreographed motion, put one of his long knives into the blonde’s throat. The boy’s eyes widened, but his scream was silent. He fell into Randall’s arms. How polite, how delightful. His eyelids dropped closed as Randall slowly lowered him to the floor. Looking at him lying peacefully, the man frowned. Too quick, too quiet, too clean. 

Randall was thankful his curse wasn’t about sexual pleasure. It would give him another uncomfortable thing in common with Hershel. Still, a kill like this after creeping through a house for so long had a similar disappointment, leaving him more tense than it relieved him. After a few unsuccessful tugs on the knife, he left it. He’d lodged it a little too efficiently, and he could find a different weapon.

He stood and moved to the door of the kitchen. The old woman, who was washing potatoes, didn’t look up as he entered. Randall’s eyes gravitated to a wooden block with several knives. So many lovely choices. He selected a cleaver, appreciating the weight and the perfectly carved handle. And then his eyes went to the lady, his mind flooding with all sorts of awful thoughts. He’d have to get her attention. A repeat of the last one would be tragic.

“Forget something, m’dear?” She spoke up, when he was a few feet behind her.

“Not quite.” The woman whipped around, surprised. Horror leaked onto her face when she saw the broad blade in his hand, and he grinned.

“There’s nothing in here worth stealing, Sir. It’s only a kitchen. I won’t say anything. Nobody has to know I saw you.” Her voice shook, eyes flickered around the room. Looking for a weapon or an escape, he thought.

“Get the feeling they’re going to notice Blondie isn’t so perky anymore, so it doesn’t really matter what you tell them. I’m pretty distinctive.” 

“The young master is in the house.” A last ditch attempt. “His friends, too. I’ll scream.”

“I’d be quite glad if you do.” Randall whispered. Her brave front broke down a little, and he saw her tense. This was it, he thought, delight rising in his chest. He took another slow step, swinging the cleaver in his hand.

Cornered prey. The woman backed herself into a corner and grabbed another knife from another block, holding it out. Randall had run into this several times in his second youth, and he knew just what to do. He charged forward and swung the cleaver to disarm her, then came back around to slash onto her chest. Her clothes were cut through immediately, leaving a bloody scar on her chest as she collapsed with an echoing scream. 

Cutting the throat was efficient, but it was joyless work. What was the point, if they couldn’t scream? Randall even had a good angle, but instead, he kicked out her legs and grabbed the second knife off the kitchen counter. He found himself looming over the weeping woman. She didn’t have the breath to beg, only scream and cry. He felt a rising power in his chest, a cleaver in his right hand and the knife in his left. If only he was ambidextrous. He dropped down to kneel on her pathetic stomach.

He drove the knife into her shoulder and then higher, he slammed the cleaver down into it, cutting bone deep. He felt that joy. Exquisite, glorious, it was a joy like no other. The woman screamed again and lifted his soul to the only heaven he’d find. Her screams turned hoarse, before shattering into little sobs. Sometimes, murder was an art.

He’d reached his heaven. Now it was time to move on to the second stage of any good murder, dissection. She might not be as pretty inside as the young man he’d left in the hall, but each body was worth the time he spent on it in the end. Unfortunately, he needed peace to concentrate properly, so the music would have to stop. Randall stabbed her through the neck, only to hear rapid footsteps.

“Who’s there?!” A female voice and heavy footsteps of heeled boots. Randall’s mind ticked for a moment as he sat on the corpse until he remembered he was supposed to be on a heist.

“Ha.” Randall rose from the corpse, pulling his twin weapons with him and coming eye to eye with the woman in her ornate masquerade mask. Saphique Jaune. “I suppose… I’ve been caught.”

Saphique snarled, sprinting towards him. She kicked high, but he leaned out of it. He swiped at her leg with the knife, but he wasn’t fast enough. Taking advantage of the opening, she put the next one in his gut and sent him against a benchtop. His cleaver went spinning across the room, leaving him sitting on his hands and the knife underneath it. His hands were surely bleeding.

“Not quite the same as murdering some little old lady, is it?” She mocked, swaggering close.

“At least I don’t kidnap kids.” Randall said, half to remind himself why he was here. He felt like he’d been run over. Plan B, then. He stayed down, moving a slow hand to the blade handle. “Bet the little bastard will have nightmares for months.”

“At least he’ll be alive to have them. I thought you were better than killing a child, at least. How could you leave him there and pretend you have any kind of moral high ground?” 

Randall rolled his eyes, counting seconds as she pulled her cuffs. One, two, she stepped forward, a little more, and he sprang into action. The knife went through her boot like butter and stuck in the floor, and Randall scrambled out of range. She cursed him, voice sharp with pain, as she knelt to remove it.

Elsewhere, a familiar rumble came to life. One of the fucking mechs, Randall realized. He pulled the gun and slammed in the drum as he ran, headed to the front of the house. 

“Miserable fucking clockwork motherfucker.” He seethed. Hershel and Luke were still in the house, but Hershel could handle his shit and no one wanted to hurt Luke. They’d have as much time as it took for Randall to start the car, then he was gone.

Randall sprinted the last length to the door, but when he pulled it open, the massive clockwork angel clanked down in front of him. Its wings were spread wide to block his exit, each wide spoke like an immense, white blade. He stared. It was the first time he’d seen the bastard up close. 

There was a fluidness to its articulation that lent its movement an uncanny quality. Elegant, but still, it made Randall wonder if divinity was meant to be frightening. It stepped forward, swaths of golden gears spinning to move the heavy, metal plates. It made Randall think of nothing so much as bleached bone and angelic light.

The plates on one hand split at the thin seams, gears clacking against each other as they folded back into the arm and revealed a gatling gun. Raising the Thompson, he aimed for the machine’s firelit eyes and gleaming clockwork, and pulled the trigger, hard. The gun jumped to life in his hand, and he struggled to hold it steady.

The bulwark was unperturbed, the bullets landing and plinking off, not even leaving a single scratch or mark. 

“Fuck.” Randall breathed, as it raised its mirror-shine, spinning gun, and he fled back into the house. It followed close behind, plowing through large wooden doors. 

Randall took rounded paths, short hallways, sharp corners. Still, the suit followed, swinging it’s unwieldy fist at him when it got close. A sharp cry sounded when he turned a corner and found Sapphique bootless and furious. He barreled past her, pushing himself to his limit. He needed a lead to think of a plan, but thankfully, Randall’s pursuer slowed in the hall, careful of his teammate. He’d landed in the room he’d seen with the decorative long blades earlier, and snatched one off the wall. He made a quick decision to tuck himself in a corner.

The machine clanged close quickly, but it felt like the longest wait of his life. When the gun cleared the door, barely visible from where he stood, Randall lunged to wedge the sword into the intricate machinery, making it spark and grind. It took a swing at him with its free ‘hand’, but he knew it was coming and stepped out of reach with some victoriously choreographed footwork.

The mech twisted its ruined gun. The metal ground and screeched. A dozen small, dislodged gears clattered to the floor as something gave way, and surely more inside had come loose. Shifting plates caught and pushed up against each other, popping the chest plate was open and sending it crashing to the ground. 

The loss revealed a slim and handsome, if somewhat unremarkable, young man. He fell atop the plate onto his back, slick chocolate coloured hair and dark eyes, wearing a white button-up shirt, a tie, and denim jeans. He looked frazzled and exhausted, twitching on the painted metal. The Clockwork Apostle. 

Randall admired how handsome he was as he inched closer. His first response was how much he wanted to see  _ this  _ treat of a man split open and dissected with his knife. Before that, though, he wanted to watch the man come out of his daze and understand the situation he was in. The giant mech powered down and attempted to fold itself into a nice neat cube. It only half worked, the jammed gun refusing to fold and the chest plate having fallen off kept the cockpit exposed. The man’s eyes flicked open, and a snarl came to his lips.

“You son of bitch...” He hissed, rubbing his head. “Do you know how much fucking work that’s going to be to fix?”

“Yeah, you’re right, next time I’ll just die.” Randall said, drolly as he circled closer. “This is a nice surprise, though. I didn’t think you’d be so handsome.”

“I…” The Apostle stared up, unexpectedly turning quite pink. “Really?”

“Really. Perhaps we could meet up another time?” Randall purred.

“That’d be great, actually. Thank you.” The Apostle reached inside the mech to touch a metal chest plate and drew a revolver customized to blend in, pointing it right up between Randall’s eyes. 

Randall gauged the range and decided discretion was the better part of valor. Covering his head as he ran, he plunged through one of the windows and rolled to his feet on the lawn. He recognized the front of the lawn, darting out of the gate and to the car, which was already running. Hershel threw it into gear before the door even closed and peeled out, headed home. 


	8. The Black Swan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The three return to the manor, and plans long in motion come to a head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 8 Trigger Warnings  
> Extremely Manipulative Behavior  
> Heavy References to Sexual Relationship Between Luke & Layton  
> Metaphysical Torture  
> Attempted Premeditated Murder  
> Almost Child Death

The atmosphere in the car was strange. Luke had never been kidnapped before, but he’d expected a lot more cuddling afterwards. Instead the Professah drove, knuckles white from where he gripped the wheel. Randall was in the front with them, but he leaned away into the door. No one talked. After a moment, Luke drew up his courage.

“Is Pesto okay?” He asked, quietly. “He said he didn’t hurt her.” The silence dragged for a moment. Finally, Mister Randall, whose face was beginning to bruise, answered him.

“She’s fine, as far as we can tell.” He said, sounding disinterested. 

“I know she didn’t do her job perfectly, but she did really good.” Luke pointed out nervously. “And anyway, she’s my friend so I don’t think she should be punished.”

No one answered.

Luke leaned forward out of his seat and tapped the Professah’s shoulder, and the man recoiled, startled, swerving wide.

“Don’t do that.” He said very sternly. “I’ll prefer not to have a wreck on top of everything else.”

“You weren’t answering. I started to get worried.”

“I was thinking.” Then, less harshly, he continued. “I’m sorry, Luke. Do you remember when I told you I had a personal project that wasn’t going quite the way I wanted?” Luke hummed.

“I think you can help me with it. In fact, I’d been hoping you would, but I wasn’t sure how to ask. However, I’m running out of time.” Randall kicked out at the floorboards.

“ _Hershel._ ” 

“Wait, does Randall know what it is?” 

“He does.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? You said you wanted my help.”

“It’s… complicated. It’s a lot of work and very unpleasant.” The professah fussed with the brim of his hat as he drove. “You know I don’t like involving you in my work.”

Luke considered it, pouting. He was terribly tired and didn’t feel good at all, but the Professah rarely asked for things for himself.

“What do I do?” He asked, and the tension all drained out of the man’s body.

“Such a good boy! All you have to do is take a quick bath, drink a bit of medicine, and lie down where I tell you.” That sounded like how Luke wanted to spend his evening anyway, with less food. He could bear it for an evening.

“You said it was unpleasant. ” He realized. The Professah rubbed at his hat.

“The medicine is extremely bitter, and you’ll be spending some of the evening stretched out on the basement floor.” He confessed, sheepishly.

“Do I have to do it tonight?”

“No.” Randall interjected.

“Yes, unfortunately.” The Professah answered. “This is why we’ve been arguing so much. Randall thinks I’m making a poor decision, but I think once you see the results, you’ll understand.”

“I don’t think you’re making a poor decision, Hershel. I _know_ you’re fucking up, and I’m making sure I can say ‘I told you so’ when you spend the next eternity trying to cry on my shoulder.”

“The Professah knows what he’s doing, Randall.” Luke pointed out, testily. “He’s the one who plans everything for a reason.” The earlier awkwardness flooded back and didn’t lift again during the drive. He hoped everyone would relax once they were home, but the Professah herded him into the basement as soon as they were in the house. Randall followed, looking grim.

Rules involving Luke were generally for other people. They were things like don’t touch him first, don’t be rude, don’t be alone with him. Nonetheless, there were rules for him, too. Among them, Luke was not allowed in the basement without the Professah’s direct supervision. No one was, not even Randall or the maids. The basement was where the Professah did magic, afterall.

It was an enormous room with a concrete floor. Two big circles, each with four smaller circles inside them, were intricately painted and decorated with stones, flowers, and bones. Luke was _not to touch it._ The Professah had been extremely clear, whenever they were down here. He steered towards the shelves instead.

The man smiled tightly when he looked up from where he was returning what he’d used to save Luke. He waved at Luke to follow him.

“This is going to be a bit of a cold bath.” He said, pulling a medium sized tin bath tub. He stopped to stare at it, then spoke strangely. “I suppose this should work fine. Please undress and sit down inside.”

Luke pulled off his dress with some relief, giggling a little when Randall cursed and turned away. It was less funny when the Professah didn’t look up from where he was gathering jugs. Lukee wiggled out of his long, sheer camisole. Next, his short bloomers pooled at his feet, and he stepped out of them. Standing around naked was a familiar experience, but in the basement, it felt vulnerable, embarrassing. 

“It’s _really_ cold.” Luke complained quietly as he stepped into the tub.

“I’m sorry. I’m afraid it’s about to get much colder.” Luke yelped, as freezing water poured over him. He shook, goosebumps rising over the length of his body. “One more. Then, please rub yourself down with it.”

Luke braced, gritting his teeth, but he still wasn’t ready. Finally, the second jug was empty, and he cupped his hands to splash the water up on him. He scrubbed an open palm over as much of himself as he could reach.

The Professah was standing behind him, and Luke could feel the man looking at him. He grinned to himself, peeking over his shoulder. The man stood still, holding a thick white robe and staring into the sigil that spanned the width of Luke’s lower back.

“You can wash it if you want.” Luke teased. The man dragged his gaze up to Luke’s face. He looked _wrong,_ eyes shimmering. “Professah, are you okay? Is something wrong?” 

“That’s enough.” He said, softly, offering the robe. “I’ll be fine, once this is over.” Standing in the doorway, Randall said something he couldn’t hear properly but sounded like swears. Luke took the robe.

“If you _promise_ you’ll be okay?” Luke asked, teeth chattering.

“I’ll be alright.” He repeated. “Now, please, put on your robe. We have a few more steps.” He walked to a large work table filled with bottles and dried flowers.

Luke pulled on his robe, tying it tightly. It wasn’t warm, especially wet from his skin, but it was much better than being naked. He padded after the Professor, who was pouring a spoonful of pale yellow dust into a juice glass already half full of a pale green liquid.

“Professah, are you making the potion? What’s in it?”

“Undiluted green absinthe and bone dust.” Luke grimaced, as the man reached for a sieve and what looked like a handful of black beads. “These are Belladonna berries.”

“Are they good?” Luke asked, looking up at him. The professah pressed them through the sieve with a pestle. 

“Very sweet, but not very safe, unless you know what you’re doing.” He added a spoonful of pink powder, and reached for an unlabeled medicine bottle. “These are powdered rose petals and laudanum.” The liquid in the bottle was red-brown, and the Professah added two spoonfuls.

“When I saw Doctor Reese, you didn’t let him give me laudanum.” Luke pointed out as the man topped the glass up out of a wine bottle.

“It should be reserved for specific circumstances. And since I know you’ll ask, the last ingredient was wine steeped with mugwort and wormwood.” He finally mixed it with a long, silver cocktail spoon. “It’s going to be unpleasant, but you have to drink all of it.” The Professah said, handing Luke the glass.

“It has _wine_?” Luke asked, wide-eyed. “I’m not allowed to have wine, either.” 

“You are, tonight.” He said, and Luke grinned. It smelled bad, but he felt a little grown up, getting to try so much. He stopped smiling when he took a sip. 

“It’s _bitter_.” And it burnt all the way to his stomach, he thought, grimacing. “I want dinner after this.” He whined, taking a bigger drink. “And a hot bath and snuggles.”

“What, kid, too tired to commit an atrocity?” Randall called, facing away. “I’m sure Hershel’s raring to go.” Luke giggled, weakly.

“Now that you mention it,” Luke looked to the Professah, but he wasn’t looking back, fussing with his hat. Still moody, Luke thought, I’ll tease Randall instead. “Actually, Randall, I know I make fun of you sometimes because you don’t have any uhm, _intimate_ friends, but you should have just said you were scared of naked people.”

“Don’t try and make _me_ into the fucking weirdo just because I don’t like naked babies!”

“I’m _thirteen_. And you’re the one who’s basically a virgin.” 

“ _Children_!” The Professah snapped. “We only have a few more minutes. Luke, finish the glass, now, please.” He strode towards a far shelf, rifling through it. Luke looked at Randall’s back, but the man didn’t turn around. 

He finished the glass and carefully slid it onto the worktable, grimacing at the aftertaste. When the man came back, he was carrying what looked like a simple iron circlet with a blue stone and a small jar of oil.

“I’m done now, Professah. I’m sorry I wasn’t being very serious. I know this is important.” Luke apologized remorsefully, hands clasped together.

“I’m sorry, Luke, I didn’t mean to get so...” He set the circlet on the table. “This is incredibly important to me. I have made countless sacrifices to perform this ritual, and I’m being unpleasant because I’m a bit stressed. Please forgive me.”

Ritual. Luke shook the thought away, putting on a wide smile. 

“Just be nice for the rest, okay? I promise I’ll be serious.” The Professah nodded, opening the jar and dipping in his fingers.

He smeared it over Luke’s forehead. Unlike the potion, it smelled really good, but pungent, and Luke scrunched his nose.

“Is this the last thing?” He asked, feeling dizzy. “You wanted me to lay down, didn’t you?”

“Just this, then you can lie down.” The Professah said, settling the circlet on Luke’s head. Luke bleared up at him. He felt like he was swaying. The man watched him, looking very much like he wanted to say something.

“Professah?” He asked. The smell of the oil and the burn of the potion in his throat made him feel increasingly distant from his body. “It’ll be okay. We’ll finish, then you can take me to bed and we can sleep for _days_.”

“I suppose I’ll have to hold you to that.”

“You won’t.” Luke babbled. The words fell thoughtlessly from his lips. “I will, though. Sleep and sleep.”

The Professah’s face twisted. Unsettled, he thought, though he wasn’t sure why. But as Luke turned to face the chalk circles and the flowers, his legs locked up. His mind felt light, a voice telling him to run, leave, go to bed, and he’d never have to see this room again, and nothing bad could happen to him. 

“I have to lie down now, don’t I?” Luke croaked.

“Yes, between the two largest circles so that your body connects them.”

Nodding, Luke stumbled towards them. The Professah would never let anything bad happen to him. Ever. Up close, he could see skulls and fresh flowers and one of his favourite stuffed bunnies, a blue one he’d named Pauline. He laid down on the ground so that they spread out from him like wings and closed his eyes obediently. After a moment, he heard voices, the Professah’s first and Randall’s next.

It sounded like Latin, in that the words were unrecognizable but familiar. They echoed more and more, without getting louder. It felt like something went loose, and though his eyes stayed closed, he could see a white blue light from his mind’s eye that rose in the center of the smallest circles. It was as though his whole body were an eye, observing everything around him at one. Slowly, the light bled into the other rings, creeping closer. With each ring, it burned brighter and colder, until finally it reached him. 

It _hurt._ It sank into his bones and turned them molten, and his flesh felt like shattered glass. When he tried to scream, to _move_ , but his body was paralyzed. It just went on and on, as the echoes lapped back over themselves and became a booming cacophony that felt like it was crushing him to dust. Luke’s brain felt like it was on fire, a white hot pain. He thought hysterically that his skin must be charred and bursting over his bubbling bones. 

The echoes began to sync up. Through the searing white light, he could see inhumane faces and knew them. Sickened, he realized that if the sound lined up again, the light would devour him. He would be one of them beyond the light. He felt if he could open his mouth, he could scream the world apart.

Before the noise fully synced, the sound abruptly cut and was replaced with silence, and with it, the pain softened to a deep ache all over. His body fought to respond, nothing moving the way it was supposed to. His face was sticky with sweat and tears. 

“Professah?” He called feebly, against the ground. “Professah, I think I’m dying.” Luke’s voice was hoarse and his tears began to stream down his face.

“Shh...” The Professah hushed as he moved closer. Luke could see him now, silhouetted by the dim basement lights. “You did so well, my boy. Better than I could have ever hoped. I’m so proud of you.” He loomed over Luke, distant.

“I’m dying, Hershel.” Luke desperately repeated. Had the man not heard him? “Something went wrong. Help me.”

The man knelt. He began to stroke Luke’s hair but didn’t answer. Luke found himself weeping uselessly for any kind of help. 

“The ritual went perfectly, Luke, I promise you. You did so well.” 

“It _hurt!_ What if it kills me?” Luke screamed, his muscles twitching as a haze drowned his thoughts. He wanted to thrash and kick, but the Professah kept stroking his hair.

“It might.” The Professah admitted, finally. His voice was so quiet. The admission killed Luke’s rage. It was honest, sad. Maybe, he’d just been afraid to tell Luke. This must be important. 

“What was this for, Hershel?” Luke whispered, tears dripping from his face. His throat hurt so badly. He felt so weak, head lolling aside. The Professah tilt his head back up to stare into his eyes instead.

“I can’t tell you, my boy.” The Professah whispered, stroking his cheek. “But I’m _so_ proud of you. You were more than I could ever deserve.” He had tears in his own eyes.

In a flash, the creeping suspicion that Hershel had known this would happen, that it would be like this, solidified into truth. He knew Luke’s chances were low, but loved Luke. _It had to be important._ The man said he’d done _such a good job._ Maybe this wouldn’t be a terrible way to go, not after how happy they’d been.

“Can you kiss me goodnight?” Luke croaked, sniffling. He couldn’t manage a smile, but a sort of peace had fallen over him as the haze began to drag him down. He hoped it was only sleep.

“Of course.” The Professah slipped the sapphire circlet off with his broad thumb and cupped his cheeks like he usually did before a kiss. Luke let his eyes flutter closed, but the kiss landed chastely on his forehead, rather than his awaiting lips. His brows furrowed, confused, as the man pulled him into a weak hug.

“Professah?”

The Professah had no response, but even if he did have something to say, Luke finally went limp and passed out in his arms.

* * *

Hershel wiped at his wet eyes and gently set the boy back on the floor. He stood up, standing between the Circles of Life and Death, the project of an entire decade that was claiming its last life. He carefully brushed dust from the concrete floor off his trousers, pushing his hands into his pockets. Everything used in the ritual had turned to ash except Luke, who looked as though he were not far behind.

“Randall, take him upstairs; I need to check on Claire. Rosa can tell you which room to lay him out in.”

Suddenly, Hershel was hit on the back of the head, hard. He stumbled, turning quickly to see Randall seething _._ The pages of the Latin he’d been given were scattered in pieces at their feet. The man had one of his knives in his hand, and something like grief in his eyes.

“Randall.” Hershel warned, rubbing the back of his neck. Watching the man fume carefully, he knew Randall wouldn’t go through with it, no matter how hard he was clutching that knife. Still, he preferred not to get sucker punched again. “You need to-”

“You son of a _bitch_ , you couldn’t even properly fucking kiss him after _everything you did_ !” He snarled. “I thought you’d run off! I thought you’d _stop_! I didn’t, I never thought you’d really do it, but-- but--”

“If you’re finished.” Hershel interrupted absently. “I do truly need to check on Claire.”

Randall shouted incoherently and lunged forward with his knife, clearly aiming for Hershel’s throat. He caught the man’s arm and twisted it behind his back, grabbing the knife and tucking it into his coat neatly. Hershel kicked out one of Randall’s legs, forcing him to the ground. 

In three years, Randall had never attacked him before, not really. A scuffle here and there, they even sparred but never had he turned a knife on Hershel.

“If you’re finished.” Hershel repeated, sighing and moving to the centre of the circle where a woman lay, intercepted in time. Wearing a lab coat with her hair tied, Claire Folly slept among the ashes.

He knelt by her and lifted her wrist to check her pulse. Her heart was beating, and as he watched her, she took a shuddery breath. Narrowly avoiding the knife he’d taken off Randall as he drew a lighter from his coat, he pulled an eyelid open and flicked the lighter on. Her pupils widened.

Perhaps comatose for now, but she shifted and stirred on the floor. She would wake soon.

* * *

Randall found himself carrying Luke to the room he’d be staying in, with one hand on the boy’s back, the other hand under his bottom. He carried him like the child he was. Much to his disgust, Hershel typically carried him like a young bride instead.

He pushed the door open to the room he had been advised to, finding it was a well decorated guest room. Next to a comfortable looking bed, the bedside table was piled with flowers and toys. Pesto, who’d followed him whining from the basement, snuck in behind him. He’d leave her here.

Randall felt like he should be furious with her, the loud bag of meat, but nothing settled in. Nothing felt real. Was this losing someone, he pondered that as he laid the boy out carefully. He’d been disarmed so easily. He knew he was the better fighter of them; he knew Hershel’s moves as well as his own, but he hadn’t been able to dig up a strategy. There was just rage, since burnt to ash.

Randall pulled the covers over the kid and made a note to bring the kid a few of his stuffed animals. He deserved not to die alone. Randall stood, watching the boy sleep for a moment. He noticed Luke taking deep, strong breaths and wondered. He checked Luke’s pulse, fluttering but strong. 

The kid was out, maybe for a while, but Randall knew enough about what happened to Clark to know the kid should already be coming apart. Instead, Luke’s face had a healthy flush, and when Randall checked his eyes, they reacted slowly. 

_It’ll be okay. We’ll finish, then you can take me to bed and we can sleep for days._

“Son of a bitch...” Alone, Randall could let himself feel the relief bubbling up. They fought, but the grief had been painfully real, for a moment. 

It looked like he’d wake at some point, maybe soon. He’d have to deal with being replaced, but Randall knew all about having to start life from scratch. He poured the sleeping kid a glass of water from the pitcher tucked behind a vase and set it down on the table, just in case. Luke was going to be a terror once he woke up, Randall was sure, and he wouldn’t be working alone.


	9. Overexposed Photograph

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claire wakes up in a bright, beautiful future. Hershel welcomes her lovingly, but... He's not quite what she expected.
> 
> Note: They have sex though it takes place primarily off screen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well a/n: I'm sorry! Had a bit of an incident and accidentally and incorrectly uploaded it the first time.  
> Chapter 9 Trigger Warnings  
> Hershel and Luke's Relationship  
> Infidelity  
> Poor Medical Care (though it's probably the best available at the time.)  
> Manipulation

Claire woke a little at a time, slowly becoming aware of herself and her surroundings. The bed was the softest she’d ever slept on; the blankets and pillows were plush. When she could finally rouse herself to consciousness, she found herself staring at a high and unfamiliar ceiling, ornate and carved.

She hadn’t expected to wake up in a _bed_ of all things after stepping into that time travel machine. Something to note for later, when she came back. Her wrist felt lighter as she realised the recall bracelet was missing from her wrist. She needed to get that.

Claire pushed herself up and spotted a familiar face - one she hadn’t expected to see. Wearing that top hat she bought him the other day- no, it would’ve been ten years ago, and a lovely black velvet coat with an orange shirt. 

Hershel was handsome as he’d ever been. He didn’t look older in the usual sense, rather he looked gently worn down in a way she didn’t remember. He was leafing through a book, _Automata_ , but when his eyes rose, the most beautiful smile broke onto his face.

“Claire…” The man rose from his seat and came to take her cheek. Claire leaned into it and smiled.

“This is quite the surprise, Hershel.” Claire chuckled. 

“For one of us. Welcome to the future.” 

“That’s true! A successful test both ways then? Can you tell me how I materialized from the timestream? Roland was particularly interested in getting that stable. Were there any aberrations in the air?”

“I can’t say.” He admitted sheepishly. “My experience runs towards soft sciences, I’m afraid, and it’s been too long for me to simply repeat the data back.”

“Where am I? My future- no, present self could answer my questions.” Claire stopped short and gasped, breaking into a joyous giggle. “I can’t believe I said that. I can’t believe we did!”

“Your present self is at a conference, unfortunately. She said it would’ve been too dangerous to meet you.” He offered his hand as he stood. “I would be happy to show you around, however.” Claire took his hand.

“Where _are_ we?” She asked, as she stood. Claire enjoyed the way he looked up to her, the top of his head coming just up to her chin. 

“Our home. I think you’ll enjoy it.”

“Lead the way, Mister Layton.” She teased. “Or Professor, I suppose hm?”

“Mister is quite alright, Miss Folly.” He offered in the same tone. “This is the green room, one of the guest rooms. I thought it a bit presumptuous to put you in my bed.”

“A gentleman!”

“I aspire to nothing higher,” He crooned, settling her hand on his arm as he escorted her into the long corridor. “I supposed you’d be most interested in the study…?”

“Hershel, how large is this house?” The hall went on for a long time in both directions. Claire’s eyes went back and forth at the paintings and the sparse doors. “How do we afford this?”

“Primarily your work for cracking time travel. And a couple business opportunities did arise for me as well. It’s almost funny, really, I hadn’t intended to do more than fund my research.” 

“What kind of business opportunities? Oh, or should you not tell because of...” Claire waved at herself. “You know what, don’t tell me. I’m just proud that you’re...well.”

“A functional adult?” Hershel seemed amused. “I do seem to be doing much better the last few years.” 

“I really am proud. You used to be far too frazzled to do this kind of thing, I think.” Claire squeezed his arm with a warm smile. What a lovely future ahead of her, she thought.

“I really would have come apart then.” Hershel chuckled.

“I’m glad that we got here. It’s not just the nice house, Hershel, you deserve to be happy.” 

A look crossed his face, not sad or pleased, but deliberately neutral. Claire frowned. 

“Are you okay?” She asked, worry dropping to her stomach for just a moment.

“It means a great deal to hear you say that. Come on, then, we should stop dawdling. You have a whole house yet to see.”

He took her through the house. Stopping occasionally, he would point out certain rooms, but mostly, he talked about the architecture. He didn’t actually take her through most of them, she noticed, but with such a large house, she hardly blamed him.

After a few minutes, they found a maid, an older woman, carefully dusting the paintings in one of the halls. 

“Ah, Rosa, if I could trouble you for a moment?” Hershel asked, lightly. The woman jumped.

“Mr. Layton! What can I do for you, Sir?” Rosa’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. 

“I was wondering if you could perhaps have lunch set up for us in the garden.” 

“Yes, Sir.” She moved away as if she was worried about being in their presence for too long. Claire wondered if Rosa disliked them or if she and Hershel had turned into the sort of rich people her parents were. It was an unpleasant thought.

Shortly after, they came to a room with large double doors.

Hershel pushed the doors open to a small library, rugs and sofas with cushions, and a couple beautiful bookshelves filled with all sorts of books. Claire gasped, clasping her hands together at the mere sight.

“Oh!” She stepped in front of one of the shelves, her eyes scanning the shelves. Primarily soft science, anthropology, archeology, things he was primarily interested in. Her Jules Verne, her H. G. Wells, her technical manuals weren’t there. She glanced back to Hershel who was dusting his shoulder. “Are there any books of mine in here?”

“I think you may have hidden them away so you don’t have to trawl through all of mine, to get to them.” He replied. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice.”

His study was also gorgeously decorated. More books, Claire thought, amused. The man could fill a house with just books she was sure. Still, none of them were hers. 

A shelf of archeological artifacts grabbed her attention, but she found herself unable to identify any. Another shelf had carefully displayed gemstones, but there was nothing on his desk except a pen. The expensiveness and careful tidiness of the office unsettled her. It didn’t seem like her boyfriend.

“Our maids probably deserve a raise, keeping your mess in line,” She joked.

“I’m sure they’d be pleased to hear that, but I’m the one who cleans this room. They actually aren’t allowed in here most of the time.”

“You really are doing much better then!” She laughed, awkwardly. “What’s next?”

He showed her through the downstairs halls, pointing out where the kitchen and dining room were. Finally, he led her into the parlour. With its large sofas and twinkling lights, the room was lovely, until she noticed how, unlike the office, it looked more like a magazine illustration than the other rooms she’d seen so far. It made sense, she supposed. Neither of them were much for guests. 

He guided her out the front and through a massive carefully tended garden. She recognized snapdragons and yellow roses, in the sea of colors waving gently in the breeze. 

It was bliss. The air smelled divine, a soft floral scent permeating the air. Hershel held her hand as they came to a small white gazebo. In the shade, a circular white table stood set up with teacups and a tiered high tea tray crammed with little sandwiches and little cakes. A man with slicked back red hair stood, dressed in typical butler attire as he poured some tea into some perfect china teacups from a floral patterned bone white teapot.

“Would I get fired for spitting on these or would you just glare at me?” The butler asked, as Claire hopped up the steps towards the table. He shot her a bit of a glare, but it was more _annoyed_ than anything.  
“Claire, this is Randall. He’s a relentless nightmare.”

Randall. She’d listened and comforted poor Hershel countless times over the apparent death of the man who was standing now right in front of her, startlingly real and startlingly physical. He held the teapot and placed it down. She blinked and opened her mouth.

“You mean _the_ Randall? Your- your ex?” She spoke breathlessly.

Hershel was glaring at Randall, watching him carefully as the man smirked.

“So I’m told.” Randall shrugged. “It’s hard to imagine, though. If I wanted to ruin my life now, I'd pick someone _pretty._ ”

“Apparently, he survived, though not unscathed, and is now an amnesiac in my employ.” Hershel informed her, evenly. He didn’t acknowledge the man’s comment at all. “You’ll have to forgive him for his behavior. He’s essentially a very old teenager.”

Randall snarled at that and shoved past them to leave the gazebo, turning around to shout after them and raise his middle fingers to the sky.

“Fuck you and fuck your tea!” 

Claire gasped, turning to Hershel. He was covering his face with his free hand.

“I’m very sorry about his behavior. I’ll speak to him later, I assure you.”

“You always described him as eccentric with a _heart of gold,_ didn’t you?” She let the question seep into her voice, and Hershel’s face twisted sadly, but took her hand to seat her down opposite him on the lovely tea table a maid had set up for them.

“He’s unrecognizable from who he once was.” Hershel spoke, raising the steaming cup of tea to his lips. Claire caught some melancholy in his eyes. “Amnesia, for one thing, and…”

Claire watched him sigh and pause. 

“He was the one who found that mask in the first place, wasn’t he? Did… Did he wind up like _you?_ ”

Hershel took a deep sip of his tea, but placed it down once he was ready to speak.

“Worse, if you can believe it.”

“Oh, god.” Claire screwed her face up, but Hershel raised a finger to provide clarification.

“He suffers from homicidal intrusive thoughts that he is often unable to resist acting on.” Hershel explained quietly. “I can resist, but Randall cannot. I’ve been acting as his self control instead.”

Claire looked quite grave as she took a club sandwich from the tiered tray. “Is really it safe for him to be living with us, dear?”

“We’ve found in an environment where his lesser slip-ups such as regular cursing are forgiven, he can resist more regularly. He’d never caused anyone lasting harm, even before I took him in.” Hershel explained softly. “We are safe, I can promise you.”

“You know what I did notice, though?” Claire nibbled on the sandwich and tried to hide a smile.

“Hmm?”

“You aren’t spiralling or getting upset with yourself.”

“Ah.” 

“That’s progress!”

“It’s progress I’ve made over the past decade.”

Claire just felt relief and joy bubble in her heart. She’d comforted the man through many bad, sometimes delirious nights. His battle was less against his monstrous thoughts and more against his anger towards himself because of them, but he seemed to finally be free.

“I’m glad we get here eventually.” She chuckled, but raised her wrist and blinked as she remembered. “Um, did you take the recall bracelet off me?”

“I did.” Hershel admitted but leaned forward. “Seeing as my lovely wife is away for some time, I thought perhaps I could spend more time with her here.”

That sentence scrambled Claire’s brain, but his smile and tone just made her flush. “Oh, Hershel.”

* * *

Hershel whined when Claire pulled out of him, sound muffled from where his face was buried in the pillows. She patted his flank, laughing breathlessly. 

“I always forget how sweet you are like this,” Claire teased, loudly unbuckling the strap-on. He turned his face so he could watch her, chest heaving and hair slicked with sweat as she came down from her high. The strap-on was Luke’s, originally, custom commissioned leather straps that could fit on just about anything from large stuffed animals to the boy’s tiny waist. She hadn’t noticed how small it could get, thankfully.

“Did you want anything more…?” Hershel’s offer was vague and soft. He’d gone down on her when they started, but he remembered sometimes she wanted something more afterwards. Claire shook her head.

“I think I’m just about ready for bed, actually.”

Hershel nodded, dragging himself upright. “I’m going to shower, I think,” he told her. She nodded and slid off the bed to move to the drawers where she could rifle through them. He watched her for a moment, before walking stiffly to the adjoined bathroom.

It sat opposite Luke’s old room, and as all things that Luke had touched in Hershel’s life, it was lavish. The jacuzzi bathtub and spacious shower, like the rest of the decor, were made of cream marble. One wall had a full length mirror, and there were extravagant bath supplies tuck away all over. Somewhere, Luke had tucked away soap that smelled like vanilla cake. 

Hershel turned on the shower, reaching out to let the water hit his hand. Too cold. He watched the water flow down over his arm as it warmed. Closing his eyes, he stepped in and let the water fall on his face instead.

He was sore. He’d enjoyed being with Claire; he loved her. In the aftermath, though, he felt disconnected from it, from her, from his body. All day it was as though he hadn’t been fully present, and time passed through his fingers like water. It reminded him of the weeks after Randall’s fall and Claire’s accident.

Grief, perhaps, but there was guilt, too. He hadn’t seen Luke since Claire woke up, scared to let her out of his sight for long but aware she would take Luke’s presence poorly. He’d confessed the uglier parts of his mind to her once, and she’d said they could work through it together. Unfortunately, he’d stopped caring about being any semblance of a good person many years ago, and now that she was _back…_

It brought home the reality of his situation. He was lying to her, constantly. About almost everything. He knew he couldn’t maintain it for long, but he hoped that his charm and being a functional human being would help her forgive him. It occurred to him she might not care considering that functionality had come from allowing himself to be monstrous.

Hershel poured shampoo into his hands to scrub at his hair. He felt _filthy_ , in a way he hadn’t in a long time. He chased old thoughts in circles, aware it wasn’t his body he wanted to scrub clean. He almost wished he could raze his brain clean with steel wool. He felt so out of control.

 _She’ll be disgusted._ There was nothing to be done, of course. There were just things he couldn’t tell her. _The truth isn’t a conversation for a lady to hear, and it was gentlemanly to save a lady from an untimely demise._ He ducked his head under the stream, washing the suds away. He needed to keep control of the situation. 

He watched them circle the drain as he reached for the soap. He still hurt, muscles pulling as he moved, but he took a cloth to scrub himself down all over harshly to wash the grimy feeling off. Luke would be with him in the shower, if he were awake, leaning against the glass to enjoy the heat. He liked the steam and, Hershel suspected, the view.

Maybe, they’d be in the bath instead since Luke would surely be unsteady on his feet after the ritual, if he weren’t comatose. He would sprinkle in carefully chosen salts and sit in Hershel’s lap. He could imagine clearly the way Luke would look up at him, adoring and alluring. Hershel would trace the tattoo of his name on the boy’s back and kiss his perfect lips. The rest of the world would melt away.

Instead, there was silence. There was solitude. There was the knowledge, imprinted deep, that if he went to Claire with this grief that left him hollow he would lose her as well. Hershel shut off the water and stepped out.

He stepped dripping on the bathmat and took a thick towel from the rack by the shower and swiped it over himself. This set was made of the softest terry cloth he could find. Luke hadn’t liked the kind Hershel had owned when he moved in, and Hershel had immediately replaced them. He dried his hair roughly, accepting it would be a mess tonight.

Hershel set the towel aside and threw on his bathrobe, tying it tightly around his waist. The door to the bedroom opened to Claire tucked into bed reading a thick novel, spectacles slipping down her nose and eyelids falling shut. She wore one of the nightgowns he’d had made for her, a light blue the same shade as Luke’s favorite hat. Hershel realized it, seeing her sit in their bed. He thought he may be the stupidest man in the universe.

At least he’d had Luke’s closet cleared and sealed off. There was now a wardrobe blocking the adjoining door. A guest room no one uses because it’s adjoined to the main bedroom, he’d told her. Claire hadn’t given it any thought, simply asked which drawers were hers.

As Hershel approached, her gaze rose, and she pushed her spectacles back up her nose.

“Just about recovered, then?” Claire quirked an eyebrow, dog-earing the page of her book and sliding it onto the bedside table. There was a blind moment of panic when he realized he couldn’t remember if he’d checked it for Luke’s things yet, but if she hadn’t noticed anything earlier, she would now. He pulled a smile onto his face.

“Nearly,” He said after a moment, and Claire looked him over carefully.

“Good, I was hoping you might fetch my tea for me. I don’t wanna get up.” She mumbled, curling up. 

“Of course, my dear,” He’d almost forgotten that Claire liked herbal tea before going to sleep. Sometimes, she enjoyed biscuits with it; he’d have to see what they had. She usually made her nightly tea herself, but now and again, she asked that he do it. “I'll be just a few minutes,” He said as he stepped out.

The halls were cold at night, even halfway through summer, and darker than he remembered. He wasn’t prone to wandering when he should be sleeping nor working late anymore. He smiled sadly to himself; Luke had changed his life for the better in so many ways. 

Claire wouldn’t notice if he took a moment to check on the boy. He backtracked passed the bedroom and slipped down a hall of guestrooms. At the far end was Luke’s new room. 

Hershel grimaced when he found it cracked open, and gently pushed open the door. One of the younger maids startled, dropping a spoon into the bowl she was holding. He raised his brows, but the girl sat them aside and skittered out, head bowed. He’d deal with it later, for now, his boy lay in front of him.

The large bed in which Luke was laid only emphasized how _small_ the boy was, how young he looked. Flush faced and dressed in a white lace chemise, he was painfully beautiful against the plush, white pillows the maid had used to propped him up. Standing guard around him was a small army of his soft toys. Mimsy, Elaine, Trevor, but the one that stopped his heart was new, unnamed as far as he knew. The teddy with a top hat he’d given Luke only a few days ago lay just outside the boy’s lax hands. 

A wheeze drew Hershel’s attention to the end of Luke’s bed. Pesto was curled there, twitching in her sleep. There was a litter pan near the bed, so someone had failed to remove her at some point. Food and water bowls had been provided as well, and they looked totally untouched. Hershel didn’t know what to do with her, now. She’d failed, but she’d done well. Luke loved her, and she loved Luke. He supposed, standing there, that he’d failed too.

Hershel closed the door and went to the bed, sitting on the edge. The boy needed to finish his meal, after all. It would never do to let Luke go hungry. He took the bowl, stirring it lightly with the spoon.

It smelled like yams, but it was cold and had the texture of particularly thin apple sauce. It was the sort of thing one fed infants. Luke would be furious, if he was awake; Hershel certainly was. He would be livid if they fed it to _Pesto_ , let alone his boy.

“I’m sorry, dear boy,” He said quietly. “I’ll fix this for you. Maybe some nice soup?”

There was no answer. 

A week ago, Luke would have been beside himself with rage, hissing about baby food. He could almost hear him, _how could you, I’m being fed gruel and you didn’t even notice!_ He hadn’t. He hadn’t given them any sort of instructions on Luke’s care, so he wasn’t sure they were even at fault. “Potato with cheddar and bacon, how does that sound?”

Pesto whimpered in the resounding silence, no doubt suffering terrible dreams as her boy suffered. Hershel set the bowl aside and turned back to Luke, tracing a hand over the boy’s soft cheek. “I’m so sorry, my boy. I’ll take better care of you from now on, I promise. It’s the least I owe you.”

He kissed the boy’s cheek, just a paternal brush of his lips. Still, he found himself eyeing the boy’s little petal pink lips, parted in sleep. He rubbed his thumb over the boy’s soft lower lip, felt Luke’s slow breaths puff over his skin. Hershel leaned close entranced.

Luke’s brow wrinkled, eyes twitching under his lids, and Hershel drew back, strangely ashamed. A nightmare, he realized. _I wonder if it’s because I’m here,_ he thought. There was no way the boy would wake up from it. Hershel slid open the bedside table and opened it to find the old incense Luke used to have - he had a couple homemade sticks for those nights when the poor thing could feel a vision coming on.

Thankfully, a lighter was in the drawer as well as a little pot to lay it in. He lit the incense, blowing lightly on it to generate more smoke until a quarter of the stick burned and carefully put it out, laying the smoky stick in the pot. He looked over the smoky bedroom one last time before he stepped out, and after a moment of consideration, he moved the top hat bear into Luke’s arms and smoothed a throw blanket over the boy’s legs. When Pesto gave him some sad eyes, he carefully scritched her behind the ears, and forced himself to leave.

He could talk to the chefs about Luke’s diet while he got Claire her tea.


	10. Tumbling Through the Looking Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claire's future becomes clear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 9 Trigger Warning  
> Hershel's sexual interests  
> Off screen murder  
> Corpses

Claire checked the tag on the cardigan as she pulled it on. One hundred percent cotton, as one might expect from an article of clothing with the name and address on the tailor embroidered into the white stitched tag. The simplest looking purse she’d found in their closet was made from fine leather in Paris. The dress she wore under it was made of lavender silk. All told, the outfit must have cost hundreds of dollars, far more expensive than anything she’d ever bought or been gifted by her parents.

It was unsettling. At home, she had a canvas bag and a handful of nice work clothes. The rest were more utilitarian, comfortable but a bit ugly. If she was going to spend money on any accessories, it would be scarves.

When she went downstairs, she took a moment to find her bearings. Her spatial memory was better than most, but in such a large house, it still took a moment to remember where exactly the dining room was. She found Hershel there, alongside a lovely breakfast, already prepared.

“Hershel, do we have a cook?” She asked, gawking at the plate of eggs Benedict set out for her. She hadn’t had eggs Benedict in years. Hershel was a fair cook, and she was passable, but neither of them had managed to ever make an edible hollandaise sauce.

“We do,” He explained, pouring a cup of tea for her. “A Parisian man named Gaspard, though I’m afraid his specialty is sweets.”

“There are worse things, I suppose.” Claire giggled. Poor Hershel, he was the sort of man who thought of fresh bread with a thin spread of butter and a nice cup of tea as a particular treat. 

She dug in, delighted. Claire closed her eyes, enjoying the bite. It was as rich as she remembered, though much better quality. When she opened her eyes, Hershel was watching her. He smiled when he noticed she’d caught him, instead of shying away.

She grinned at him. He seemed more himself this morning, if bolder. She’d never met anyone else who was willing to have medium boiled eggs and plain toast for breakfast every morning.

“You look lovely every morning, but especially today,” he said, still gazing at her with an awe that was charming but also a familiar sort of disconcerting. The man was terribly lonely without her; she honestly worried for him sometimes.

“Thank you.” She took a drink of the milk that had been provided for her. It wasn’t her preference, but she could hardly complain. The Hershel she remembered often forgot to eat, let alone get her a drink with breakfast. “What’s the plan for today?”

“Ah, unfortunately, I have some things to which I must attend today.” He grimaced softly. “I thought perhaps you might want to go out. Maybe explore a bit and visit one of our properties for lunch, then we could spend the evening together?”

“Oh, that’s a lovely idea.” She wondered if she should take a notebook with her. She’d at least get an idea of smaller cultural and technological changes. It could theoretically jump-start that technology if she brought it back with her, but was that ethical, she wondered, stealing an idea from someone if they hadn’t had it yet. Would it be bad for space-time, perhaps? “Where were you thinking of sending me?”

“I will admit, I’m eager to show off a delicatessen called Odile’s.”

“From Swan Lake? I’m not surprised.” It was one of their first dates and the very first time Hershel had been to the ballet. She remembered the man spent most of that night in tears.

“It left quite an impression.” He said, gaze so besotted she flushed.

The rest of breakfast passed quickly. Hershel talked to her a bit about current events and answered her questions. When they’d finished, he quickly wrote out directions for her and kissed her goodbye, Randall looming impatiently behind him.

* * *

Hershel had lent her a car, one much nicer than she was used to driving. He’d been very quick, and excited, to tell her it was a Roll Royce Phantom. Personally, she’d thought British cars were a bit of a wash, but it certainly drove better than her father’s Silver Ghost had.

As she gamboled about in it, she found herself checking on different landmarks nearby. Her parents’ home was out in the country, or it would be funny to drop in on them. They hadn’t thought science was a worthy pursuit for their little girl. Her favourite restaurant was still open, thank god, but she also noticed a couple new land developments. 

She stopped. There was a park where her lab was supposed to be. A honk behind her made her jump. Claire drove. They’d created time travel, she supposed it would make sense to move to a larger building.

The London streets were bustling as always, and she recognized the area the deli was in quickly, tucked away just off the main streets. It was busy and upper class but subtly. She wondered if any of the customers would recognize her when she went in. 

Claire pushed the door open and stepped inside. She was immediately hit with the smell of strong coffee and fresh bread. She took a moment to take it all in.

A woman cut some ham behind the counter, her hair up in a silk bandanna, and a goateed man putting together a charcuterie board. There was also a younger woman with her wavy acorn hair in a high ponytail, a slightly askew _IN TRAINING_ note on her white uniform wiping down the small tables.

One was empty, but Hershel hadn’t told her very much about the place. She wasn’t exactly sure what this place sold, let alone served fresh. She did see a menu on a chalkboard, listing off bread, sandwiches, high quality chocolates and coffees. 

She pursed her lips and stepped forward to the counter, pulling the cash Hershel had given her as the goateed man hurried over, smoothing his hair and presenting his best pearly white smile.

“Good day, ma’am, is there I might be able to help you with today?” He certainly had a charming smile. Claire smiled as she pushed the cash over the counter.

“A mocha and some fresh bread with olive oil?” She asked.

“Well, ma’am, you’ve come to the right place.” The man took the cash neatly and slid her change along with a table number. “We do the best mochas in town.”

Claire giggled, her eyes briefly catching on the acorn haired woman’s curious eyes as she turned to take a seat.

As she took a seat, it occurred to her she hadn’t been recognized. That wasn’t strange in and of itself, scientists were often faceless, no matter how famous they were. Perhaps her work had been attributed to a male colleague - perhaps Roland. Or Hershel. It then occurred to her that she hadn’t been recognized at her husband’s deli. Had she changed so much?

Except, thinking about it, this wasn’t the only strange thing that had happened. The library was absent of all her books, to the point where she’d suffered through one of Hershel’s miserable German romantic tragedies before bed. Her closet held very little clothing, less that she liked, and every item was new.

Had they gotten divorced, she wondered. Hershel wasn’t the sort to lie, that she knew, but he seemed very different now. Perhaps, she’d taken most of the things she liked with her to the conference. A conference was rarely more than a week at most, though. 

Claire was startled out of her thoughts by the wavy haired woman setting her order onto the table. She looked up to thank her, but the woman was looking at her very intensely.

“You’re _Claire Folly._ ” It would have been relieving to have an employee recognize her, even if it was the new girl and not the manager, except she sounded horrified. “He really did it, then.”

“Excuse me?” Claire asked, careful to keep her voice even.

“I-” The woman’s dark brown eyes flicked to the counter. “I can’t explain here, but please, I’ve never heard anything but good things about you. I get off for lunch myself in a few minutes, and I _need_ to talk to you about Hershel Layton.”

Rattled, Claire was ashamed that her first instinct was to ask what he’d done. It wasn’t fair to be so suspicious of him, she thought, he’d been nothing but charming since she’d gotten there. Still, there was a niggling doubt in her mind. Hershel was a good man, kind and patient, but she remembered the new scars across his back and arms, his careful expressions and carefully chosen words, his calmly antagonistic relationship with his ex-lover who he now described as homicidal. A thousand little things that didn’t add up to the man she remembered.  
“I’ll wait for you.” If she lied, Claire could disprove it. If what she had to say was true, Claire suspected it was something she truly did need to know. She tried desperately not to ruminate on what the woman had to tell her, but it was hard when she had an army of ugly suspicions whispering in her ear. 

True to her word, the woman reappeared without her apron a few minutes later, as Claire nursed the end of her mocha. It was a shame the meal had been so stressful, she thought ruefully, what she’d tasted of it had been amazing. The woman led her outside and down a side alley. Claire realized that the other woman was limping only after it worsened on the walk, but before she could ask, they came to a flight of stairs that led to a second floor flat. She opened the door and held it for Claire.

The inside of the apartment was flash, if small. Stark white and black, a masquerade mask and cape on a coat stand right next to the door. A small room with a bookcase, table, sofa, and two doors to presumably a bedroom and bathroom. Perhaps a kitten. Claire moved inside and quietly compared her much larger apartment back in the present to this tiny place.

“My name is Emmy,” The woman said, hurrying to close the door behind her. “I’ve spent many years working as a vigilante. I’ve fought a lot of people, but the worst has always been a man called the Professor.”

“The Professor?” Claire raised an eyebrow as Emmy lightly pushed past her to a bookshelf. Picking a large book, she opened it to reveal it was merely a leather bound container with a collection of photos. She made a gesture indicating they should sit down, and Claire complied to politely sit on the black leather sofa as the woman hurried around to show her the contents of the container.

“I took most of these myself.” Emmy gently placed the first black and white photo into Claire’s lap.

The photo showed a man in a top hat and a strange black and white mask, holding a long sword and standing over bodies. At his shoulder stood a tall man in a bloodied white tailcoat, paired with a matching mask and white top hat. He was holding a similar sword. It appeared to be taken in some indoor foyer, a hall of sorts. A symposium, perhaps? The angle from which it had been taken was voyeuristic, aimed down at the subjects from a mezzanine floor. The rail could be seen on the corner of the photograph.

“I took this one investigating a gathering of fortune tellers that had been arranged by someone who… wasn’t.” Emmy commented quietly. “I wanted to see what was happening after hearing who was behind the event, and…”

“Slaughtered.” Claire whispered. Her stomach churned.

“Yep.” Emmy blinked. Claire realized she probably saw the thing in person, but she shook her head and pulled another photo. “I stole this one.”

“You stole it-?” Claire had it placed in her hands, and immediately felt nauseous.

Hershel was sitting in Odile’s, and in his lap, was a small, smiling child in a short dress. One of his broad hands rested on the child’s thigh, pushing the ruffles up enough to see the tops of the child’s socks. Claire breathed in unsteadily, and tears began to spring.

“I don’t understand.” Claire said, numb with horror.

“Ah, I guess that one looks a bit innocuous,” Emmy said, as Claire tried to find the words to tell her it was the worst thing that she'd ever seen. “The kid’s name is Luke Triton. Layton killed his parents to acquire him for his metaphysical talents, but we think that he might be using him for sex-”

“I know that’s what he’s doing!” Claire snapped. “He wasn’t- We were supposed to work through it together!” Emmy’s face twisted into something that might be sympathy or repulsion. Claire couldn’t see her clearly through the tears. 

“You kn-?”

“What kind of monster am _I?_ Why did I let this happen?”

“You...” Emmy placed a hand on her back, sighing. “You didn’t.”

“Don’t say that if it’s not true.” Claire took her glasses off to bury her face in her hands.

“I promise that it wasn’t your fault.”

Claire raised her eyes to meet the woman’s firm asserting gaze. A promise.

“How can you promise that?”

“I guess it’s time you knew.”

* * *

_In Loving Memory of Those Taken._ _Time is the longest distance between two places. 8th July 1914._ The black marble obelisk read below a list of names, one of them Claire’s own. 

The base of the memorial bore the signs of the recent anniversary, letters and wilting flowers. It felt strange to be adding to it as Claire settled the bouquet of lilies they’d stopped for among the rest. It was such personal grief and so distant. She wondered if her parents had been among the mourners, her surviving friends. 

People she’d seen just the day before last had been dead for a decade. _She_ had been dead for a decade. Claire’s life was gone. 

Sniffling, she took her glasses off to wipe at her eyes and nose. Her first crying jag had ended before they got into the car, but the tears had started when they stepped into the park. She couldn’t get them to stop. 

Emmy stood nearby, having driven her to the site. She’d bought the flowers. 

As bizarre as the situation was, it felt right to leave flowers not just for the others, but for herself. Claire had spent all her life fighting, fighting to be seen, to be taken seriously, to follow her dreams, but there was nothing to fight except reality.

“It couldn’t have been your fault that Layton went down that road.” Emmy spoke softly as she stepped forward, staring up at the golden tip of the obelisk. Her arms were folded across her chest. “It just…”

“I know now. I don’t know if this is better.” Claire held her glasses and stared down at the flowers.

“I’d say you’ve escaped death already.”

“Have I?”  
“You don’t need to go back. You could live out your life here in the future and go back when you’re going to die. Or something.”

Claire ticked over whether or not this was true. “I was supposed to stay in the future for a few minutes, not… a couple decades.”

“Has the world ended from you being here?” Emmy patted her shoulder.

“I…” Was she relieved the world mostly moved on without her if it meant she could keep living in it? Yes, she decided firmly. Claire put her glasses back on. She moved the conversation on. “Do you know where Luke is?”

“If you’re here, there’s a decent chance he survived the ritual the Professor did to snatch you out of time.” Emmy admitted.

“I’ll try to get him out,” Claire said, voice determined. 

Emmy had been about to speak, but she just nodded. “Bring him to me once you grab him. No one else.”

“Why just you?”

“I hate to speak ill of the dead, but one of the guys we were working with might have had less than benevolent motives for trying to help save him. There’s only so many times someone can put on a skin suit shaped like a child before you start to wonder about them.”

“What?” Claire blinked, dumbfounded.

“Yeah. My experience with ‘heroic’ men doesn’t really get better after that. Apostle’s not too bad, but honestly, he seems like too much of a mess to handle Luke on his own.”

Claire nodded. “Should I be doing anything else? I can probably get information...”

“Saving the kid is the priority, but anything you can find for us would be amazing. We’ve been trying to take him down for years, but he’s smart. The magical junk he’s managed to dig up doesn't hurt either.” She passed Claire a slip of paper. “A phone number, if you need anything. It should connect to a man named Clive who can help.”

“Thank you. I should probably go back soon, so he doesn’t suspect anything.” Claire’s voice was quiet. They stood together in silence under the grey sky. She needed some more time to cry, and Emmy stood right at her side while she did.

* * *

When she got back to the manor, she didn’t see Hershel or Randall, so she went to work looking. Unfortunately, it wasn’t as easy as she’d expected. Many doors were locked all over the house, and some of the ones that weren’t were stripped down instead. 

Claire stood in a hallway surrounded by countless locked doors, having checked each of them. She groaned once she figured out what it was. It was camouflage. One randomly locked or empty room in a mansion was an anomaly worth investigating. Twenty usually just meant the owner didn’t trust their servants. Hershel had always been paranoid, and very, very clever.

Claire tore through the library, pulling almost every book from the shelf to check and found nothing. No records, no filing cabinets, no secret passageway. She’d tried to enter his office only to find the door was locked. Of the unlocked rooms, she’d found a quaint bedroom with all sorts of antique weaponry on the walls, what looked like a fencing studio complete with yoga mats and a sauna room, and far far more guest rooms than Hershel could ever need. He’d never had that many friends.

She pushed the master bedroom doors open to check no one was inside. Her eyes scanned the room and indeed, no one was there. Shutting the door behind her and clicking the lock, it felt as if she could rest for a moment. No one could find her in here.

Her first course of action was to go through the drawers, searching for any sort of key. Next, she ran her finger tips around the bedroom walls to try and catch any sort of hidden door or panel. Nothing. In the bathroom, she clapped her hands three times in the mirror and waited for some sort of response.

Claire exhaled as she decided to go through the bedside table drawers, finding little trinkets and knickknacks, pens and a piece of jewelry in one, and various sex toys in the other.

She picked up a cock ring to stare at before hastily dropping it, but grabbing some bobby pins painted pale pink before she slammed the drawer shut. Her eyes caught on a sliver of colour pinned to the wall by the headboard. Claire hesitantly tugged it out to find she was holding a tiny pair of white panties with pink frills and a pink ribbon pattern on it.

Once she realized what she was holding, and recognized some white stains on the ribbon patterns, she shuddered and dropped them. Claire put her face in her hands and sighed. _Disgusting._

She felt unwell.

She had to carry on, though. Claire had made her choices, and this was living with them. She slid off the bed and moved over to Hershel’s coat hanging on the wall. She stuffed her hands in the pockets, and her hand came out with a small, pink stuffed rabbit. A part of her immediately wondered if it was a sex toy, and she put it back, letting the thought drop away.

Leaving the room with her bobby pins, she looked over them and began to fashion it into a lockpick. She’d read plenty of books on all sorts of lockpicking rogues. It was harder than the books made it out to be, but she’d built a time machine. 

She moved to the first locked door, room adjoined to the master bedroom. She bent a couple open and stuck them into the lock, kneeling to try feeling out the lock. It was nerve wracking and she ruined the pin she was using as tension, but she got it open, after a few minutes of jiggling it. Unfortunately, the room was barren. There was no furniture, no dust. It looked _new._

She shut it but found herself unable to relock the door. A distressing development, but she needed to move on. The next two locked rooms were just normal bedrooms. She noted which ones she’d already tried and moved onto a more remote hallway.

The first locked room in the new hall was a parlour with a fireplace, sofas, and a piano. It was a beautiful thing, and she took a moment to brush her fingers over the ivory keys and to press one down to bring a rich tone through the room. She moved to the next, at the far end of the hall. The lock fought her, and she grumbled at it under her breath. It finally clicked open.

“I was starting to think you wouldn’t get it.” A man said, over her shoulder. Claire yelped and drew against the door, still on her knees. Randall towered over her. “The lock I mean, it looks like you finally caught on. What are you looking for?”

 _Homicidal_. She could feel it in the way his eyes dissected her. He looked the same now as he had looming over those bodies with Hershel. Claire steadied herself and dredged up every ounce of fury she could manage.

“ _He kills people! He’s keeping a child!_ ” Her voice came out as a hoarse wince rather than a shout. 

“You _knew_ ?” A delighted grin spread on the man’s face, and for a second she hated him almost more than Hershel. “Oh, that’s rich. No wonder he wanted you back. You didn’t break up with him even though you _knew!_ ”

“He didn’t do anything, he just thought I should.. know. We were working on it.” Claire felt her eyes start to sting. This was the worst day of her life, she thought. “He said he felt like a _monster_ , but now he’s locked a child in this house with him.”

“Yeah, that happens.” Randall jeered. “I can’t believe that you just trusted him.”

“At least I’m doing something about it!” She snapped.

It was vindicating, and frightening, to watch the glee seep out of Randall’s face. Claire stood, raising her chin, and opened the door. His mouth twitched, but he didn’t move.

“That’s… That’s the wrong room.” He said.

Claire turned her head back as she found the door just opened to yet another guest room.

Randall dug through one of his pockets and drew out a key, holding it out to her. Claire’s heart stopped. 

“Head to the master bedroom from here and keep going until the hall splits. It’s the only locked door on the left end. Leave the key on top of the frame when you’re done. It’s the only one I have.”

Claire took the key hesitantly, staring at him. 

“Just so you know, he’ll want you downstairs for dinner around six.” Randall dipped his head and went to leave.

When the man was out of sight, Claire checked her watch. _5:38_. She would have to come back for the boy tonight or next time Hershel left her by herself. For now, she wanted to check on him, see that he was breathing. Not much good helping a corpse escape. 

Randall’s instructions were vague, but it didn’t take long to find the right room. _5:42_. She had to be quick. The door opened easily with the key, and she slid it onto the door frame for Randall on tiptoe.

As she opened the door, she felt her nose flood with a strange unfamiliar incense smell. From the light that she’d let in from the door into the dark room, she saw swirls of smoke in the air. Claire shut the door behind her and reached numbly for a gas lamp knob - only to find a light switch instead which flooded the room with light from an ornately painted light on the ceiling.

The room was smoky, which drew her eyes to a half burned incense stick in a little pot on the bedside table. There was a large double bed and a tiny motionless child tucked in. He was propped up on some thick pillows so he was sitting up, but he sank into them. The orphan Hershel made, Luke Triton.

The boy’s appearance was startling. A small child, Claire thought he might be six at the oldest, and despite his coma-like state, he seemed healthy, with strong breathing and a rosy complexion. His fluffy caramel coloured hair lay wildly around his head, a sweet image in another time and place. Then, Claire noticed his pudgy arms were wrapped around a little teddy bear wearing a small familiar top hat.

“Oh my _god._ ” Claire pushed her face into her hands. After she could breathe again without shouting, she moved to the bed. The massive dog at the end of the bed she’d taken for a giant stuffed animal snuffled and shifted. Claire stiffened, moving carefully. She gently poked the boy’s cheek to see if he was awake, or able to be woken up. 

He didn’t budge. It occurred to her he may be afraid. It felt terrible to hope he was just frightened of her. She leaned close to him, hoping the dog didn’t wake up.

“Luke. I’m here to rescue you.” She whispered.

He didn’t even twitch. He really _was_ comatose.

She patted his head and checked her watch, to see it was a couple of minutes until 6. Claire smoothed her hair and pulled the boy’s plush out of his arms. After a moment, she carefully replaced it with an otter plush from the pile. The poor boy deserved to be free in his sleep, at least.

As she hurried out of the room, she closed the door and reached up on her tiptoes to grab the key. She fumbled with it to push it into the lock, locking the door again and slipping the key onto the ridge.

She wasn’t looking forward to that dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N from 999: Hello all, chapters are still coming. They are slowed for now because both Mix and I are having a difficult time mentally with the current state of the world. The fanfiction is looking to be around 15 chapters long(?) and we are on chapter 14. Please excuse any delays!


	11. Sustenance For A Lonely Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claire suffers through dinner with Hershel, and Hershel suffers through his life without Luke. 
> 
> ie I just like awkward dinners y'all. And Luke has another appearance, albeit minor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 11 Trigger Warnings  
> Extremely Awkward Dinner  
> Manipulation  
> Implicit Threats  
> Hershel and Luke's relationship, including confessing love to a young child

Claire sat at the table, her glass filled with a deep rose wine. Her plate had a lovely selection of seafood, some fried scallop on a cracker, mussels, prawns and some deep pink salmon with thyme and black pepper. Hershel sat next to her, carefully spooning a little bit of soy sauce over his own platter.

“I managed to have this soy imported directly from China.” Hershel informed her softly, sipping from the mussel. She struggled for a response.

“Did you, now?” Claire raised her eyes and gently took the little pot and spoon to try and drizzle some into a mussel as well. She noticed Randall standing by the exit, then, leaning against the wall. Fiddling with his cufflinks, he didn’t seem interested in their conversation. He’d been helpful earlier, but his presence now unsettled her. Did Hershel intend to force her to stay?

She raised the mussel to her lips to tip into her mouth, finding it didn’t taste bad, if a bit chewy.

“And those are imported from the Mediterranean.” Hershel added as he raised the wine glass.

Claire placed the shell down on her plate and made herself smile. “So, where’s the wine from?”

“Oh, France, of course.” Hershel replied as he sipped.

A couple days ago she’d left the man in front of her to test the time travel machine at the lab, intending to be home for dinner. The poor man’s social life was impeded so much by his refusal to enter any situations where he could be offered alcohol that sometimes he wouldn’t go into restaurants without her some days. She’d read his writings. He was _terrified_ of losing any control of himself. She’d thought perhaps he didn’t need to worry so much.

Hershel drained the glass and placed it down. Claire watched and couldn’t find a response. Her throat was raw. 

“How was the deli?” Hershel asked, tenting his fingers as she carefully slipped some salmon into her mouth, giving her time to chew and think of a response.

She _did_ have a nice mocha. And the bread _was_ lovely. But of course, the conversation with Emmy had been difficult. Not just difficult, stomach churning. She realized why she wasn’t hungry - she still felt nauseous from discovering the poor kid in his house. God knows what had happened to him. Why were those panties in his room? Were they the kid’s? Just something he’d bought?

“It was good.” Claire smiled weakly.

“I get the finest chocolates imported there. Especially for the mochas, you see. Your future self still loves them.”

Her finger twitched and she plucked some shrimp from her plate, cracking the shell to start eating. She had to stomach this, it was just a small entree. 

Hershel watched her closely. She held herself close, carefully normal.

“Did something happen, sweetheart?” He asked.

“Nothing happened, I’m sorry.”

* * *

Over many years of it being an integral part of his work, both private and professional, Hershel had gotten a sense for liars. It was nothing next to Luke’s, of course, but Claire wasn’t very practiced either.

She was clever, he’d allow, careful to keep her expression neutral, but something had clearly gone very, _very_ wrong in the hours she’d been alone. He pressed his tented fingers tightly for a moment, smiled. Miguel was going to have a very uncomfortable phone call later, he suspected, though he didn’t wholly blame the man. He’d only been warned to be running at their highest quality, the way they would have been for Luke.

How stupid that was, in retrospect. He was used to pulling strings around Luke who, if he noticed, was grateful for it. Hershel leaned back in his seat, planning. He’d intended to gently break her death to her soon, to play his behavior up as a man bereaved and desperate for her companionship. It was true, after all, just not the full story. It would have to be put off until he knew what she’d discovered and mitigated the damage.

“Still, you seem… troubled.” Soften the eyes and mouth, lean forward just so, tilt the head, pitch the voice low. Acting was easy with a bit of experience. “If there’s anything you need, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

“I know you’d do anything for me, Hershel. I do.” She didn’t sound particularly charmed by it, though.

“Actually, I have a small present for you. I wasn’t planning on giving it to you until you were planning to return home, but it might cheer you up.” In reality, he’d been planning to give her the necklace soon anyway, but it was useful that he’d not yet had time to wrap it. 

One of his errands today had included having the sapphire from the iron tiara, the only part of the ritual to survive perfectly intact, removed, cut, and reset. He’d originally intended to simply dissolve them, but he’d found they were imbued with a peculiar energy. It would make a perfectly suited gift for a woman for whom he’d already gone to such incredible lengths, an irreplaceable necklace for an irreplaceable woman.

That his first instinct had been to have it sized for Luke was habit, nothing more.

Hershel pulled it from his coat, but Claire shook her head as he offered the open box. “Is something wrong?” 

“I- We don’t know the effects of taking things back. I don’t want to chance it, and it would be rude to accept a gift I didn’t intend to keep.” She giggled airily. “Besides, a lady doesn’t accept jewelry from men she isn’t going to marry, and I have my own Hershel at home.” She looked a bit ill. He set the necklace on the table and stared into the endless blue of the gem.

“Ah, I suppose so, forgive me.” Unbalanced, he continued. “I’m not always properly expressive, so I’ve gotten into the habit of spoiling my loved ones. I wasn’t thinking.” She was supposed to take it, he thought, despondently. She was supposed to take the necklace and be pleased with him. She was supposed to plaster the wound he’d suffered to have her back.

“I don’t think it would help, anyway. I think I’m starting to get ill, honestly. Maybe a side effect?” She said. “I’ll go lie down in the room you gave me. I’d hate to bother you with it.”

“Of course.” He agreed, trying to tuck away his agitation. “You’re never a bother, but if you’ll be comfortable in your room, please. If you need anything-”

“I’ll be sure to ask. The maids are live-ins, aren’t they? Good night, Hershel.” She strode away with sharp, clacking steps and disappeared. Randall grinned nastily before the door closed. He’d done nothing to stop her, the worthless man.

“Don’t start with me.” Hershel bit down on the urge to snarl. “I don’t have the patience for you at the best of times.”

“Saw the teddy bear, Hershel. You’re sick.” Randall sounded giddy, but there was rage in his eyes. “Are you still fucking him or are you pretending to be a person now that _Claire’s_ watching?”

“I owed it to him to make sure he was being taken care of properly.” Hershel sniffed, pushing away his plates as he stood. “It’s not as though I’ll be visiting again. I care for him, I always will, but Claire is my priority.”

“You’ve made that abundantly clear. I can’t believe my taste in men was ever this bad.”

“You know, I’ve thought the same thing after your fascination with things you shouldn’t mess with _ruined my life_.” Randall bristled like a cat, no doubt ready to argue. Hershel walked out.

It wasn’t unusual for him to be in the kitchens, fetching tea late at night or snacks for Luke. Sometimes, on bad nights, he did it without thinking. There was something soothing in the motions of doing these things yourself, when you chose to do them. 

This was the first time he’d done it during dinner. The servants took a look at his face and froze. He waved them away, and they scattered like frightened birds. He rummaged through the cabinets and the ice box, until he found himself looking at what he’d need to make Luke’s chocolate milk. Looking at the ingredients, he felt a once lovely memory resurface.

* * *

He could hear the pre-teen boy giggling from the door of his playroom, the greatest indicator he was about to walk into some kind of mischief. Hershel’s only solace was that Randall was busy downstairs finishing up the business that had trapped the boy in his playroom for most of the day, and therefore would not be participating. It was odd to be worried about _Randall_ harassing him after so many years, but all of the time he’d been living with them had been strange. He wasn’t terribly surprised to find that Luke had charmed him so quickly, though Randall would never admit to it.

Hershel shifted the cold glass of chocolate milk to a more secure position in his hand and braced himself. The milk was meant to be a treat for Luke’s patience, but he may need it for a bribe, instead. He hoped it wasn’t paint, again,

The door closed with a soft click behind, and he saw what had Luke so gleeful. A stuffed elephant, one of the cheaper ones stuffed with shavings, was tied tightly to his train tracks with a hair ribbon. The boy stood over it, cackling very dramatically. Hershel caught sight of a pair of toy swords and, smiling, he set the glass on a stand. He slipped a hand into his shirt, thankful he’d worn his pendant today.

“Now, my train will squish you and you will never interfere with my plans again!” The boy exclaimed. “Don’t bother to beg.” Hershel finally closed one hand on the hilt. It was lighter than the swords he was used to, absurdly small in his hand. He let go of the pendant.

“Nay, dastardly villain,” He said. Luke yelped in surprise and started giggling at him. “This vile act cannot stand. I will save my comrade, and we will defeat you.” 

Luke bounced to the other sword and took it up with a wide grin.  
“Silly hero!” His dark eyes glittered up at Hershel, and the man swallowed his heart, drunk on the light he saw there. “I am far too powerful for you!” The boy jabbed lightly in his direction. Hershel gently turned it aside, doing it best to make it resemble a real parry.

“I am a champion of justice, Ruffian.” He said, a bit dramatically. It was strange, to realize he was smiling too hard to properly play along. He took a soft swing at the boy, slow enough Luke could dodge easily. 

Instead, though, the boy squinted, and the sword _stopped_ mid-swing, just as the train gently butted into the stuffed elephant.

“I told you I was too powerful.” Luke informed him, smirking a little. “Swear your allegiance to me, and I will let you rob the bakery with me.” 

Laughter bubbled up, stuck in his throat, and all Hershel could do was shake his head. Luke nodded, solemnly. “I thought you might say that. I’m afraid I have to kill you.”

“Nooo,” He managed to wrestle out, “To be so ignobly defeated!” He fell to his knees. “Truly you are the worst scoundrel.”  
Luke “stabbed” him in the stomach, and he dutifully “died”, collapsing to the floor. The boy chortled, but after a moment of silence, he poked Hershel in the stomach.

“Professah?” He sounded a bit worried. Hershel peeked out at him from under his hat, making sure Luke saw him before he went limp again. “Professah!” Outraged, the boy climbed on to his side and poked him again.

Hershel waited a moment more, then snatched the boy into his arms as he sat up. Luke squealed, and Hershel buried his face in the boy’s hair, holding him tight. Chubby little arms wrapped around Hershel’s neck.

“Professah?” Luke said softly. “I um. I like you.”

The world went perfectly still, and Hershel held his breath, frightened the slightest movement might disturb the miracle unfolding against his chest. “I like you a lot.” 

“I really like you, too.” Hershel confided, pulling away to cup the boy’s cheek. He needed to see Luke’s face. “In truth, I love you. I don’t know if you’re old enough to understand the difference, but the kind of love I feel for you...” How did you explain romantic love to a ten year old? “I would marry you.” Hershel settled on. 

The boy lit up.

“It’s like that for me, too!” Luke said brightly. “I want to get married.”

“Do you mean that?” He didn’t know what he was offering Hershel, couldn’t possibly. “Do you promise? It’s ok, if you change your mind, but it’s very mean to lie about loving someone, even if you’re just trying not to hurt their feelings.” He was leaning too close, close enough he could feel the boy’s breath against his lips.

“I do mean it. I promise that I do.”

Hershel kisses him carefully, body burning. Luke’s silken lips felt so _small_ against his own. Trembling and breathlessly awed, Hershel pulled away.

“I love you so terribly much, my dear. My little treasure...” He crooned and kissed the boy again, deeper. He traced the boy’s lips with his tongue.

A little hand pressed on his cheek, and Hershel let himself be pushed. Luke’s face was scrunched.

“The kiss was nice, but that was gross.” He pouted up at Hershel, grumpily. “Only nice kisses.”

“Ah, of course.” Hershel was a patient man; he could wait until Luke came to him. “Forgive me, my darling.” He pecked the boy’s lips, intoxicated by the way the boy moved into it. “What would you like to play next?”

* * *

In the end, Hershel made the chocolate milk. When he told Randall he was done visiting Luke, he’d meant it. Still, he found himself slipping inside the boy’s room again, this time with the milk and a spoon. Pesto raised her head when he came in, and he patted her head without looking away from Luke.

The boy lay in the position Hershel had left him in, but he was holding Elaine instead of the bear. Hershel set the glass a side for a moment. _Randall_ , he thought irritably as he switched the plushies back. He picked Luke up, intending to move the boy into a different position to relieve the aches that came with stillness. Instead, he found himself resting the boy in his lap, sat so he slumped with his shoulder against Hershel’s chest.

Luke’s lips twitched, when Hershel rested the spoon against them, but nothing else. He gently tipped a little into the boy’s mouth, unspeakably grateful when Luke’s throat began to work. Kissing the child’s hair, he gave him another spoonful. 

After each successful swallow, he kissed Luke. His hair, the lids hiding his pretty dark eyes, his cheeks, his little nose, Hershel kissed him over and over. That’s what Luke had asked for, but it wasn’t what he had wanted. Luke drank the last spoonful, and Hershel set it aside. He cupped the boy’s cheek and kissed him carefully, Luke lips small and silken under his.

Luke slept on. Trembling, Hershel felt tears streak down his face, and he held the boy closer. What had he done? _What had he done?_ Claire hated him, and if she didn’t, she would. When had she gotten so suspicious? He felt like he’d been chasing the shape of her for so long, he’d forgotten the substance.

He rocked his boy, his beloved boy, suffering for Hershel’s decisions. Long into the night, he sat with his love lax in his arms, and every moment wondered how he could have thought this was worth what he lost.


	12. The Purity of Rage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boy awakens, changed in a changed world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 12 Trigger Warnings  
> Graphic Violence  
> Murder  
> Infidelity  
> Manipulation  
> Coercive Rape via enforced Fuck or Die  
> And as ever, Luke and Hershel being themselves

The fucking dog wouldn’t shut up. He thought she’d be worn out by now, howling most of the first day and crying on and off since, but she was barking hoarsely as Randall tucked his key back onto the door frame.

“It’s me, you fucking mutt.” He grumbled. It felt like he was always reminding the animal he lived there. Luke had assured him Pesto knew and just didn’t like him, but he thought they’d reached an understanding over the last few days. “I’m just bringing in some… some water.” He finished, after a moment. Luke was in a different position than he’d been yesterday. Randall gripped the handle of the pitcher tighter, his knuckles going white. 

Hershel had spent a long time in Luke’s room last night, much much longer than he should have. Randall knew the man would likely give in to his worse urges when Claire inevitably told him to go fuck himself, but he thought it would take more than an hour for Hershel to sink as low as fucking a comatose child.

Randall was going to kill him and Claire too. I’ll drug him, he thought, and leave him at the bottom of a bath basin. Slit Claire’s throat over him, and drown Hershel in her blood. Randall set the pitcher on the side table and started to rearrange the kid. He’d given Claire a chance, after all, and as far as he could tell, she’d hidden away in her room all night pitying herself.

Sickened to find himself grateful the man had at least redressed Luke, it took him a moment to notice when the boy whined. Pesto answered with a bellowing howl. Oh, Randall thought as his brain ground to a halt. He stopped to watch the child, breathless. 

Luke thrashed his head, brow furrowed, and slowly, he started to shift his limbs, whimpering. 

“Holy shit, Kid.” Randall whispered, stunned, and sat on the side of the bed. He wasn’t a nurturer, hadn’t the first idea what care was supposed to look like, but he’d seen Hershel pet the kid’s hair when he was sick. Hoping it wasn’t a weird romantic thing, Randall scratched his fingers over the kid’s scalp. “You made it. You’re on the other side, Luke.”

The boy moaned, which wasn’t encouraging, but it sounded pained, which was differently distressing. Randall kept going. No one had ever done it for him, so it was probably fine. A single dark eye peeked up at him through the dim light that filtered through the curtains.

* * *

Pesto woke Luke up sometimes, but she usually just licked his face. Today she was noisy, yelling and singing and crying. It felt like she’d been calling him for ages. 

The wisps of his nightmare lingered as he woke, a phantom pain that turned into a very genuine ache. He’d been left behind, in his nightmare, dropped off alone in the middle of an empty Misthallery wearing his old clothes, and the feeling of abandonment had dug deep into him. 

Someone was petting his hair and spoke softly to him as he tried to open his eyes. A man was hovering over him. 

“Professah?” I must be sick, Luke thought. Why wasn’t he sleeping in their room? He tried to remember what had happened before he went to sleep. 

“Fuck no.” Mister Randall said, voice strangely quiet. “And I deeply resent that you thought I was.”

“Where is the Professah? What-what happened?” Why was Randall sitting with him?

 _“Little’un! Oh, Luke, I was starting to think you weren’t going to wake up.”_ Pesto whimpered as she crawled up the bed to lay half on him. The boy patted her clumsily. His arm was hard to control. It was hard to make anything move the way he wanted.

“I’m ok.” He whispered, burying his face in her neck for a moment. “I think I was just sick.” They’d done something, before he passed out. Something in the cellar, maybe a ritual, he thought. The Professah had a project, didn’t he? Luke felt the outlines of his memory, looking for the details. “Randall, what happened?”

“He killed you, kiddo.” The man said. “That’s why he’s not here. He traded you to get Claire back, and he’s with her. ”

“He _didn’t!_ ” The light. He remembered the light and the pain and- “I thought I was going to die.” 

“Yeah, I thought you weren’t going to make it there for a while, too.” The man admitted. The tiny lines around his eyes were more obvious, he looked so tired. “He needed you for the ritual to bring her back. That’s why he killed your folks.”

 _To pull it off, he’d need someone like you,_ Clive had said, with his binder of ugly truths. Luke started to shake.

“He _loves_ me.” Luke asserted. “He loves me. He does; he loves me.” His eyes stung with tears.

“Kid, Claire blew him off after dinner, and he came in here and I’m still half convinced he fucked your unconscious body. If he does love you, it’s not the same way someone loves a person.” Luke shook his head, vehement, as he sat up.

“He _does!_ ” He shouted, and a lamp flickered on, popping and exploding. Luke yelped, covering his face, as Randall swore. When they figured out no one was hurt, they stared for a moment in silence.

“I...” Randall started, unusually careful. “I wanted to offer to take you to the Apostle or somewhere else, if you don’t want to be here anymore. It can’t be somewhere Hershel can find you. He might not want you anymore, not really, but he won’t let you go either.”

“I’m his _treasure_.” Luke denied, but there was horror creeping through him. It couldn’t be true. He threw himself out of the bed, stumbling. Randall steadied him. “I’m going to tell him you were lying.”

“You do that, kiddo.” Randall said, patting his head. “The key to a chest is a treasure until you get it open. I’ll be around when you figure out where you want to go.” With that, he stepped out.

Luke was wearing a chemise, which was fine, but he didn’t want to wander around in his sleep clothes. The professah got very grumpy about it, but there weren’t any clothes in the room, so Luke decided to go change. After a moment of consideration, he decided to take his top hat bear with him. The room he woke up in was in a side hall, and it took a second to figure out what direction he needed to go in. Pesto followed close behind him.

“What’s been going on?” He asked quietly. She huffed a little, an embarrassed sound.

“ _Not really sure, Little’un. Haven’t been anywhere but with you.”_

Luke nodded, pushing his fingers into her thick coat as they walked. After a minute, she spoke again. “ _Was that you?”_ She asked. “ _The lamp. It seemed like more than usual._ ”

“I don’t know. I think so. It doesn’t feel like before, it just came to me.”

Luke stood on tiptoe to push open the bedroom door. At first glance, it looked the same. He’d never kept much in there so it took until he saw the armoire pushed in front of his closet door, to realize he’d been erased from the room. 

There was a woman’s blouse, too big and too beige for him, folded neatly on a side table.

He stepped out, leaving the door wide. He tried the hall door of his closet, and it swung open to reveal a completely empty room. His clothes were _gone_. Even the racks and tables had been removed. His jewelry closet was barren. There was no sign of him in the room that he’d once slept in every night. His chest felt weird, he thought, maybe I’m dying for real. His heart fluttered, pulse skyrocketing. He could feel it beat all over. He decided to check his playroom. 

Luke careened down the hall, heedless of rules and his own wobbling gait, and threw himself at the door when he saw it. It was locked. It looped in his brain. Locked, locked, locked, the playroom was never locked. He’d never even been threatened with losing his playroom when he was bad. Pesto was shouting, left behind, but Luke stepped back and touched the part inside of his head that moved things and broke them. 

The solid wood door shattered inward, and Luke stepped through the debris into his playroom. Except, he thought, it wasn’t really his playroom. Half of it was missing, probably sealed in the crates stacked against one wall. He squeezed his bear against his chest, as he went through. His train was gone. Anything made for him had been gutted or removed, leaving his kitchen a shell. His costume closet was as empty as his regular one. The only things left mostly untouched were his stuffed animals. 

What happened? It echoed through him, the new strength swirling around it. Luke took hold of it, inside him and twisted. Before it would budge things a little, let him glean a flash of an item’s past. If he held a book, he might get the smell of fire or the curve of a smile. Now, he found himself gathering the house’s threads together and unraveling.

_“Randall, take him upstairs; I need to check on Claire. Rosa can tell you which room to lay him out in.” The professah dispassionately ordered Randall, standing over Luke’s body with his hand in his pockets._

_The Professah, reading, tucked into a chair by a woman’s, Claire’s, bedside in a room he didn’t recognize._

No, Luke thought as the image hit him hard, fighting the visions beginning to fill each of his senses, even though he knew somehow that the avalanche he’d started had to run its course. They weren’t like Randall or Clive or even his own uneasiness. He couldn’t turn away from them; they were purified truth. 

_They walked hand in hand through the garden as the flowers swayed in the summer breeze._

Luke’s legs were loose, wobbly. He’d had a time making his body do what he wanted all day, but suddenly the effort it took was herculean. Still, he clutched his teddy bear tightly and tried to ignore the sensations. He could smell the flowers and feel a hand on his.

_Hershel held her close as they kissed in the gazebo._

He hated her. He hated her, hated her, hated her. Luke could see as the air sparked around him. Rage was filling his belly and his throat, yet he could not scream. His lips were on fire.

_Claire knelt on their bed behind Hershel, who was on his knees and shaking arms. She ran a slender hand down the Professah’s spine, the other clasping his hip, as she fucked him._

Luke crumbled to the ground, finding himself unable to move. The tears became a flood, noises rising in his throat as he began to scream.

_The Professah tucked the top hat wearing teddy under Luke’s arm._

_Morning light streamed through the window of his old bedroom, as Hershel urged a workman to move trunks out quickly._

_The Professah offered a box to her over a lovely dinner. Luke sees a sapphire gleaming in the box, and he knows deeply, absolutely, it’s the one he wore in the ritual._

Luke thought he might hate him. Seeing the man’s face left him with such a fury he couldn’t breathe through it. 

_Hershel held Luke in his lap, cupping his cheek to tilt up his face. He kissed Luke, properly, on the mouth._

It was the way he was supposed to kiss him, the way Luke had asked for when he was staring into the abyss of death. A noise ripped it out of Luke’s throat, a visceral bloodcurdling scream and a pathetic sob. He dug the blunt nails of one hand into his scalp as he wept. He wanted _out._ He wanted out of this house, out of his body. Reality pressed down on him, ruthless, and he crushed the teddy in his other hand.

Looking down at the bear, the feeling it sent through him was beyond anything he’d ever felt before. It was like being devoured. It was like drowning. He wanted to keep screaming, but it got caught in his throat, lodged behind the hate.  
_Why? Why wasn’t I good enough? Wasn’t I everything you asked for? Wasn’t I everything you needed me to be? You said you loved me. You promised me all of our lives._

He didn’t think it was normal to hate someone you loved like this, to be a sort of angry that started hot, deep inside, and burned you out until nothing was left but the anger. He could feel it now, pouring into his surroundings, as the air went hazy.

Luke shook but stood to his feet, realizing he was surrounded by countless lies, each empty promise staring out at him from behind the glass eyes of his plush friends. Meaningless gifts to shore up _lies_ . He’d given Hershel his _soul._ Luke thought of all the people that had died, all the firsts he’d lost, all the time and relationships he’d lost to Hershel. For Claire? For the man’s amusement? 

The air around him began to hiss and pop, his chemise was scorching. He could feel the heat, the movement in everything around him. As he closed his eyes, he could _see_ it coming off of himself in heavy waves.

He could feel each stuffed animal, without reaching out, feel the way his anger flowed over the toys, and his feelings consumed them. With the twitch of a finger, all his named plush friends became piles of ash, until finally, the feeling swelled around the toy that had set him off. Its small top hat started to shrivel as he opened his eyes.

Luke had loved and loved and loved. That’s what he did; it was his function in the house. After years with Hershel, it was the only thing he truly knew, but the man, he didn’t need Luke anymore. Luke was a placeholder.

That wasn’t good enough.

“I’m special,” He told the bear, as its fur blackened and shrivelled in his grasp. “I deserve only the best. I deserve everything I want.” They were things he’d heard a thousand times until they were laws of nature. “Those who don’t cherish me properly deserve what happens to them.”

The eyes turned to molten slag and set flame to the cotton stuffing. The flames wove themselves around Luke’s hands and arms like tongues, yet as they burned the quickly blackening stuffed bear, the heat didn’t touch his skin.

Tame, like he’d been.

Hershel hadn’t asked for what he wanted, not really. A kiss, maybe, but not Luke’s soul. What Luke wanted, he wouldn’t get for asking, so he wouldn’t ask either. Hershel was going to spend the rest of his life with him, whether he liked it or not. It was up to Hershel if that meant he wasn’t going to live very long. 

The bear burned to ashes that settled in Luke’s palms, as he started to plan. Hershel might have had time on his side, but Luke had quickly realized he’d become much, _much_ more powerful. He could feel his psychic energies stretched out around him, moving over every surface and sending back little impulses. It was at his command.

Even a week ago, he’d be stretched thin to do something like this, but where once he’d have dug deep for it, the power responded eagerly, anticipating his needs. The plan came together in tendrils slithering across the house. 

_Black for power and for binding,_ it whispered, showing him Hershel’s black silk robe tucked away in the bedroom. _Amethyst for faithfulness, malachite clears obstacles and poisons the unwary,_ he saw them sitting on the top shelf of the bookcase by Hershel’s desk. On and on it went, until his own ritual spun itself into shape in his mind. He could send Randall for some of it.

He’d need a room set up in advance and a matching pair of amulets, too. Then, all he’d have to do was lure the man to him.

* * *

Fussing with her hair, Claire dawdled in front of the mirror in her room. She’d managed a brief call to the man Emmy called Clive the night before. They’d spoken about what she’d already found out, and eventually, they’d decided that she needed to play nice with Hershel for now, while they planned what went next today. In fact, she spent the morning noting down everything she thought might be helpful for the meeting later. The original plan wasn’t going to work. There was no way Claire was going to be able to sneak a comatose child out of the house, especially with that enormous dog. 

Hopefully, she could convince them to attack soon. Until they did, though, she was going to need to keep on Hershel’s good side. It meant making up with Hershel. She took a deep breath and smoothed her hair one last time as she pushed open the door.

An enormous crash came from a hallway she hadn’t been down, but after a moment of indecision, she kept going. Whatever it was, it was better for her cover that she at least didn’t seem to notice, and it was on the opposite side of the house of Luke’s room, anyway.

She kept moving, headed Hershel’s office. When she neared though, she found she’d fallen behind Randall. The gangly man stalked through the corridors with purpose until he finally slammed into the office.

“Guess what, asshole?” He left the door open, so she crept close to listen. “Your boy woke up. Congrats.” 

“Is he… alright?” Claire was surprised at how concerned he sounded.

“He blew up a lamp.” Randall said, and she wondered if that was the noise she heard. It was from the wrong part of the house, though. “I’m really looking forward to how you’re going to fuck up having both of them around.”

“I’ll speak to him. I… I should apologize.”

“For which part?” Randall asked snidely. “Or are we pretending it’s _just_ hijacking him into potentially fatal arcane bullshit?”

“Hello?” Claire said from the doorway, and both men startled like cats. It would be funny, if it wasn’t terrifying. She kept her face gently confused. “What’s Randall talking about?” 

The man glared at her as he stomped passed her out of the room, Hershel suspiciously neutral behind him.

“Please come in.” Hershel said, as he stood. “Some of my studies include the magical practices of ancient societies, and Randall has - ironically - little respect for it. I can understand why he might be skeptical of its use, but he belittles its existence as well, for some reason.”

“You think he might be more interested, if only to find a cure, I mean.” She smiled at Hershel as he approached, pleased to see him relax at the sight. “I’m sorry, by the way. I’m finally feeling better.”

“Good, good. I had hoped- Anyway, I thought we might go for a show tonight?” He seemed, for a heartbreaking moment, like her own flustered boyfriend, and she grabbed onto the brief moment of affection to kiss his cheek.

“I want to explore a bit more today, so I was actually planning to ask if you wanted anything while I was out. We can go to an evening show, perhaps.”

“Of course.” He laughed, lightly. “I have a bit of work I would need to attend to first anyway. Have fun.”

She smiled and bid him farewell, terrified for Luke as she left. Unarmed as she was though, there was nothing she could do for him against Hershel and Randall, except die first. She needed the heroes.

She took one of Hershel’s cars. She parked a street over from Emmy’s apartment, and hurried until she finally reached the woman’s flat. The door opened almost as soon as she knocked, revealing Emmy in a soft nightgown. The woman waved her in, yawning.

A handsome young man in a white and gold suit was sitting cross legged on Emmy’s couch. He smiled weakly at her from underneath a mask that covered his eyes, offering his hand.

“The Clockwork Apostle.” It was distinctly Clive’s voice. “You must be Claire Folly Thank you for working with us.”

Gentlemen don’t offer their hands first, but she’d had rather enough gentlemen for the moment, she thought. She took his hand in a firm grip, the kind she’d used at grant meetings with older men. She was deeply satisfied by the way his eyes widened.

“I want him in jail.” Claire told him, evenly. “Failing that, he needs to _stopped._ ” 

“That’s our plan.” He said, looking to Emmy. She nodded, and he continued. “We’ve spent years trying to get to him legally. At this point, we’re aiming to kill him.”

“I can put a map together for you, but we need to get Luke out soon.” Claire took her hand back from Clive, who seemed to have forgotten he was holding it. Clive fussed with his sleeves, flushed. “He’s been comatose since Hershel brought me here. Randall said he woke up, but he sounds unstable.” Clive frowned.

“We don’t have much time, then. Emmy, do you have-” He gestured vaguely, but the woman was already digging through a shelf. She returned with a thick notebook. “Shall we begin?”

* * *

Luke’s new room lay empty. The bedroom door was open. The playroom door was _gone,_ along with everything else in there _._ Hershel walked quickly through the corridors, searching for the boy, as the relief of Claire’s sweetness this morning boiled off. Luke couldn’t be wandering around when she got home. He couldn’t waste this chance with her, now that whatever bothering her had passed.

Things were thrown into disarray around the house, though the servants were working hard to right them as they were found. The boy had broken into the basement and upended it, though he suspected that was Randall taking advantage of the chaos. The boy was too small to handle an axe without his powers, and Hershel imagined a table would be no more trouble for him than a door. A small figure caught his eyes up ahead, and he sprinted after it. Hershel's ragged breath caught in his throat when he caught up. 

He was beautiful, always, but standing in front of Claire’s door in Hershel’s black silk robes, he was also the form of a nightmare come to life. As he came close, Luke turned his head to look at him. Hershel had once seen an obsidian knife up close, and he thought of it now, looking into the boy’s dark, endless eyes.

“You aren’t supposed to be in this hall, anymore.” Hershel told him quietly. The boy smiled, sweet but hollow. 

“I know.” Luke replied, cooly. “I knew you’d look for me here, too, eventually. You don’t have to worry, she won’t be back for at least an hour, Professah.” 

It was like being punched in the chest. He’d hoped that he might have a chance to to talk to Luke, when he woke up, to explain properly. 

“I’m _sorry_.” Hershel confessed. “I didn’t ever want to hurt you, but I needed Claire back, and it was the only way. I looked for years for someone else.”

Luke tilted his head, considering, and the atmosphere around them _shifted_. It raised goosebumps on Hershel’s skin, and the table further down the hall scraped the wall as it began to float. Luke turned completely, and Hershel could see now the loosely tied robe was all he was wearing. He could see one of the boy’s legs almost to the hip and a strip of skin all the way from his throat to the knot in the sash. The table clattered back to the floor when Luke blinked. He let his head fall back, looking as though he were offering Hershel his throat.

“I’ve decided that I’ll forgive you on just one condition.” The boy smiled brightly, and Hershel smiled reflexively in return. Such a sweet thing. “You have to kiss me on Claire’s bed.”

 _Randall’s right about you,_ Hershel thought. _A little menace_ , but it sent his heart aflutter.

“I can do one, for you.” He opened the door, and Luke pranced in giggling. The boy bounced to the bed and crawled up into it. 

“Come here, come here!” Luke giggled, patting the bed. Hershel found himself smiling again. He hoped that the boy would remain this happy now that his priorities had moved to Claire. He hoped at the very least he could keep the boy spoiled and well fed, well educated, a helpful ally in the future. Or perhaps he could give him to Miguel and let him play with Carmen, have a slightly more normal life.

A terrible part of Hershel wanted to change his mind. He wasn’t a man who generally considered infidelity an option, but the thought of still being able to hold his boy, to kiss his pink lips, lingered. But no, he had Claire back. He couldn’t.

He stepped closer and carefully sat on the edge of the bed. Hershel gently cupped the boy’s small face. Luke giggled and pulled away. 

“Not yet, I’m not ready.” He riffled through the robe pockets. He pulled two amulets on thin chains, one from each pocket. “I made something.”

“Luke.” Hershel wasn’t surprised. It was no wonder; this conversation had gone much too easily.

“Do you remember the first time we kissed?” Luke said. “You said you wanted to

marry me. I thought, even if you were with her, we could be married for right now?”

“Luke, that’s very sweet, but-” The amulet raised itself out of Luke’s hand, his voice trailing off in shock. It settled neatly around his throat, cold metal resting against his neck. The boy grinned, as his own amulet did the same.

“I want my kiss.” Luke whispered sweetly, tilting his face up. Hershel sighed. The last kiss, he realized. After this he would have to finally separate himself from the boy, and never be this close with him again. He wanted to make it last.

Hershel took the boy’s face in his hands again and kissed him, chastely at first, but when Luke slipped his little hands into the hair at the back of his head, he found himself pulling the child into his lap. The kiss deepened, the boy opening his mouth for him and allowed Hershel’s tongue to twist against his.

Then, a searing, scorching pain burst to life between his lungs. Hershel tried to pull away, but Luke held him still, swiping his little tongue into Hershel’s mouth one last time before letting go.

“You know,” Luke said, cheerfully as Hershel sat up and clawed over his shirt, “I thought this would be a lot harder. I always thought you were really brilliant, but I did all of this since I woke up.” He tapped his lips with a finger. “Well, Randall helped, too.”

“What did you do?” Hershel felt the pain sinking into his ribs, a marble of lava moving into his core. 

“I’m making you choose. I told you this was about being married, Silly. I fibbed a bit about it being for just right now, though. Both options are pretty permanent.” 

“Luke, I do love you. I _do,_ but Claire-” 

“ _No_!” Luke snapped, the lamps flaring to a blinding level before fading back out. “I don’t care about your reasons. You have two choices. If you choose Claire, you’ll die in agony or you can pick me, and we can be in love forever. ”

“You can’t be serious.” Hershel managed, but the boy’s face was solemn. “Luke, this isn’t a particularly good joke. Stop it.”

“When I say we’ll be in love forever, I mean, you’ll never be whole without me, in this life or any other. We’ll be together even when we’re dead.” Luke’s smile was chilling, devious, his little hands clasped together. He had planned this. “This ritual breaks souls into their building blocks and uses those pieces to make one soul, split between two bodies. If you choose Claire, I’ll just put myself back together and let you shatter apart. You’ll die screaming, and there won’t be enough of you for any kind of afterlife.” 

“I don’t believe that.” Hershel sat cross legged, a waver in his voice. “You wouldn’t hurt me.”

Luke’s pleasant expression fell to a snarling rage. The boy twitched, flicking his wrist. A new pain ravaged its way through Hershel’s body, and some invisible force pushed him onto his back. Hershel clutched his head as some force had clamped down onto it, as Luke watched him with a neutral expression.

“We should consummate our marriage.” Luke told him. “You don’t have very long to live otherwise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was cut in such a way that if y'all wanted to skip the sex scene, you could skip next chapter. Which will be mostly smut


	13. Malachite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hershel does his best with what little time he has.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 13 Trigger Warnings  
> Fuck Or Die/Coercive Rape  
> Luke and Hershel's Relationship  
> Manipulation  
> Consideration of Potential Impending Death  
> Brief Foot Fetish  
> Brief Stuffing Mention

“Is that… how the ritual is completed?” Hershel asked weakly. He was a selfish man, in the end. He wanted to live, but there was also something freeing about finally letting go of Claire. It felt a bit like Luke was taking a weight from him that he’d forgotten he was carrying. 

“Nope!” Luke told him, some of his cheer returning. “Actually, it could have been done when we kissed. If you make me really believe you love me, I’ll let it complete itself.” He shot Hershel a sly look. “You wouldn’t want me to marry a man that doesn’t love me, would you?”

“I do love you. I have for almost as long as I’ve known you.”

“You haven’t done a very good job of showing it, so you’re going to have to _prove it._ ”

Hershel sat back up, rubbing his hands over Luke’s slim shoulders. Now that he was more focused, he could see fragments of light glittering in the air around them. Pieces of their souls, he realized. Luke wasn’t bluffing.

“You’re beautiful.” Hershel whispered, but Luke didn’t look very impressed. ”A sweet child, charming, when I haven’t pushed you this far.”

“So you’re admitting this is your fault?”

“Yes. The lying, the ritual, Claire...” He was glad to see her again, but if he did the last week over, Hershel didn’t think he could go through with the ritual. “I’ve done a lot of terrible, truly terrible things over the years, and many of them, I did to you. I won’t ask forgiveness, but thank you for giving me a chance to make up for it.”

Luke considered it and nodded decisively, leaning up to kiss Hershel. He pulled the boy close, and the kiss deepened. Luke tipped them back onto the bed, kissing Hershel’s neck as he slithered down the man’s body. His little hands had Hershel’s belt off and his trousers open in a flash, when he stopped very suddenly.

“This isn’t very convincing.” Luke murmured drolly as he traced his fingers over Hershel’s cock. It took Hershel a long, humiliating moment to realize that he wasn’t hard.

“I’m-I can’t. It hurts.” Hershel felt a beat of panic, gesturing vaguely at his chest where it felt like the marble of molten metal had grown to the size of a walnut, searing his innards. “It’s not-”

“No, I have been patient with you! You’re choosing her. You can’t even help it, can you? I-I hate you, do you know that?” Luke seethed, teary eyed. One of his little hands clenched into a fist.

“I love you.” Hershel repeated, desperate. “Please, you know _exactly_ how beautiful I think you are, I just...” His face burned. “I just need help.”

“Why should I help you?” Luke snarled, but he regardless began to stroke the man’s soft cock. Slow, long strokes. With only one tiny hand, it was more teasing than helpful.

“I really do want this. Please, I need you to help me.” Hershel pleaded hoarsely.

“Me, specifically?” Luke asked. Once it would have been shy or even teasing, but there was a demand in it tonight. “Not Claire? Not some other dead woman or a three year old girl you haven’t told me about?”

“Yes.” Hershel told him firmly. Luke pulled the cock out of the man’s pants, and kissed the shaft so softly Hershel only just felt it. “Yes, please. She was… nothing next to you.”

The boy’s mouth twitched into a smile, and he finally moved to hold Hershel’s cock with both hands, transforming the light touch to real pleasure. He could feel himself start to harden, finally. 

“Keep going.”

“You have such a natural charm. It’s impossible not to love you, I think.” Hershel spoke, lucid still, until Luke pushed the tip of his cock into his mouth, and licked his lips to tease the head. Hershel shivered and gasped, digging his fingers into the blankets. “I’ve... killed so many people to keep you mine. I don’t know what I was thinking, offering you up.” 

Luke maintained eye contact, but there was a definite sparkle in his eye as he moved both hands down the shaft to hold it as he pushed his lips over the head.

“I… I loved you so much, so quickly.” A thought rose from the depths of his brain, a memory he’d never shared. “Clark sent me a picture of you, a year before we met, and I remember thinking that I had never seen anyone with such lovely eyes. Finally meeting you was like being a school boy again.” 

The boy bobbed his head lower as he stroked up to meet his mouth. Hershel shifted, the heat from Luke’s touch starting to overwhelm the burn in his chest. Swiping his little tongue along the underside, it felt like Luke was hypnotizing him.

“I never thought you’d love me,” Hershel admitted tremulously. “It seemed so out of reach, yet it’s been more natural with you than it was with Randall, than it’s been with Claire. I should have known you were my miracle, not Claire.” 

Luke took him into his little throat and left him straining for words that stayed just out of reach. Eyes falling closed, Hershel let his head fall back. Luke pulled off slow, and he groaned deep in his chest. 

“That’s really nice.” Luke said, in a faux bright tone that left Hershel a bit panicked. He snapped his head up to look. The fury that had never quite left Luke was back in full force. “They’re the sort of things you should say to someone you love a lot. It’s funny that you only thought to tell me now, huh?”

“I’m sorry.” Hershel said. “I am, I’m so-”

“I’m saying I don’t believe you.” Luke clarified. “I’m not mad you didn’t tell me before. I’m mad you’re _still lying._ ”

Luke had always trusted him absolutely. Losing that was a blow he’d failed to expect somehow. His words failed him again, left him flailing.

“I’m not.” His voice sounded soft, stricken. “I’m _not._ How do I prove myself?” 

Pulling at the sash, Luke got to his feet. The robe fell open, the dark silk framing his bare skin. He let it slide off his shoulders and pool on the bed. The bed dipped a little as he stepped around Hershel to splay himself artfully in the middle of it.

“Show me how much you love me.” He let his arms settle crossed at the wrists above his head and pressed his little feet into the bed. The display emphasized his soft throat, the way his soft chest swelled into his belly, his chubby legs. “Worship me, the way I deserve.”

On instinct, Hershel sat at Luke’s feet. The boy raised a brow, but when Hershel covered one foot with his hand, Luke relaxed and let him lift it. Bracing the boy’s heel with one hand, he pressed the thumb of the other into the sole, rubbing hard circles into it.

Luke hummed, watching Hershel with a disinterest belied by his stiff prick. Hershel wasn’t there yet, so he turned back to his work, nuzzling the sole. He kissed the boy’s tiny foot, kissed each toe. Each twitched, ticklish, and Hershel kissed the arch too.

Finally, he took the smallest toe into his mouth and hollowed his cheeks around it. Then, he did the same to the rest, brushing his tongue over them as he went. When he finished with the first, he settled it against himself. He let himself slip away into the light taste of Luke’s skin, soft even here, and the feel of sliding over his tongue.

“Wow, you’re into all kinds of things, huh?” Luke giggled teasingly. “Is there anything you don’t like?” Hershel didn’t respond at first, wistfully kissing the boy’s ankles. It was time he moved on.

“I am enamoured with every part of you. How soft your hair is, the way your shoulders look wet, everything about you has left me lovestruck.”

“Liar.” Luke asserted. Hershel kissed his calves, lifted his legs so he could kiss the backs of Luke’s knees. If he was going to die anyway, he was going to write his love on every inch of the boy. If he never convinced Luke, he would, at least, never be forgotten. 

The boy’s thighs were next. Hershel kissed trails up them and laved at the crease where his thigh became hip with his tongue. A moment of consideration, and Hershel mouthed his way back. He was a selfish, selfish man.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying them, since you’ve worked so hard on them. ”

Hershel startled, looking up at him. 

“Was I not supposed to figure it out? I’m not stupid!” Luke began to ramble, tapping the man’s head as he went back to mouthing his thighs. “On Wednesdays, you always get the chef to make a _huuuge_ dinner, then you make me eat _all_ of it. Then, you immediately take me to bed like I’ve been teasing you for hours! It’s a fetish, and I know it!”

“I… don’t have any words to say in my defense.” Hershel admitted. “I do that sort of thing all the time. I hadn’t realized you’d noticed any of it.” A thought hit him. “With the way I’ve underestimated you, I’m very lucky you didn’t want a more straightforward revenge, or I would already be dead.”

Luke glared and Hershel got the message to move down to his thighs again, running his fingernails across the sides ever so gently. He bit down on it and drew a cry from the boy, but quickly pressed his lips to the faint teeth marks to kiss it better. And kiss it again, and again, and again. He kissed them open mouthed and lifted his legs.

He wanted all of Luke in his mouth. He wanted to swallow him whole. He wanted Luke trapped inside him so he could never ever escape.

Hershel moved his lips up from his sore bitten and kissed thighs, to start licking at his hips. He took a deep breath, nose pressed into his skin. He smelled like clean sweat and sweetness, and it drove him crazy. He dug his fingers into Luke’s soft fatty hips as he mouthed over him. His cheek brushed up against Luke’s hard prick, the bead of pre-cum at the tip smearing on his cheek

He saw the boy’s eyes trained on him. Hershel wanted to live, but the indifferent disdain in Luke’s dark eyes made him consider the reality of not making it. There was little he could do to convince Luke of his sincerity in a handful of minutes. After breaking years of trust so thoroughly and so quickly, he thought the boy couldn’t possibly want to be meld as one so why not please him? Why not please himself? 

Hershel didn’t speak, merely moved to suck on the patch of flesh just above Luke’s cock. He hissed in irritation, and sent another burning hot jolt of pain into Hershel’s chest. Hershel merely grunted at the magma in his chest and sucked at the rim of his navel. Luke’s skin was so soft, and Hershel hoped if he was going to die, he would have the lingering sensation of his skin. Before he’d first made love to the boy, he’d never thought skin could feel so soft. 

Perhaps if he had been treating his boy correctly, this could have been a real wedding. He could have made vows that Luke would believe completely. They could have dressed for it and danced. Hershel could have given him a sip of his wine, and the food would have been incredible. 

He could have stuffed him. He could have gotten him full, his belly bloated and tight. He could watch the boy whine and sob, split open and shaking on his cock. Hershel smoothed his hands over the slight curve, traced his fingertips over the side. Luke was so gentle, so soft. Abandoning him as he had was an ugly cruelty. Hershel brushed his lips over the boy’s skin, until finally, he could no longer resist and pushed his face into Luke’s belly to nuzzle into it.

“Professah…”

“Mm.” Hershel didn’t respond, pressing down harder until he rose with a last kiss just above his belly button. He moved over.

Something Hershel loved about his boy was his soft chest. There was a curve to him that was stunning, a roundedness that drew Hershel, welcomed him. Breasts, almost, albeit small ones, and Hershel longed to mark them, swallow them. He raised his eyes from the boy’s chest to his eyes. The dagger glint in his eyes had returned, or perhaps, by the flush coming over his face, Hershel had managed to dent his indifference. 

“Are you going to keep going?” Luke crossed his arms over his chest, only for Hershel to move up and ever so gently move his arms away. 

“Of course.” Hershel moved to suck on one of his nipples, finally drawing a faint wince from Luke’s petal pink lips. He traced over the bud with his tongue, tasting it. Braced on one hand, the other dug his fingers into the tender flesh of the boy’s pale thigh. Hershel pulled off to bite the underside of the boy’s little breast. He hoped he left a mark on the boy. Hershel moves to the other side, closing his teeth on it gently. 

Luke gasped, arching up into his mouth. Hershel let go. He kissed a trail up the boy’s neck, his jaw, his ears. He caught himself leaving little bruises all over, but he found he couldn’t stop. This was his boy. If he died today, Luke would still have Hershel’s lovebites, and it soothed some visceral need deep down.

“Finally done?” Luke hissed, and Hershel kissed his sneering mouth. The boy’s mouth went soft, letting Hershel kiss him deeply. Moving back, he resettled himself between the irritated teenager’s legs.

“Almost.” He kissed the boy’s cock, beginning to drool. It already had a little stream of ejaculate running down the side, and Hershel moved to lap at the base, moaning. “Oh, I love your little cock. I want it so badly.” He crooned, lips pressed to the side.

“Pervert,” Luke croaked. “I don’t think you deserve it.”

“I don’t, God knows I don’t, but I want to be punished with it. I want you to tear me apart with it one day.”

“Yeah?” Luke’s eyes looked like black glass. “You’re assuming you’ll be alive.”

“When you’re big enough, I want you to bend me over my desk and ruin me. I want you to hurt me. I want to cry for you.” The pretty pink cock, obviously aching, bobbed against his cheek. Hershel licked it clean, savoring the biting taste. Feeling ravenous, the burn of desire overcame the pain of the ritual. “Please let me experience that, someday.”

Finally, he took all of Luke in his mouth. It wasn’t much yet, but it was Luke’s and so lovely. When he nursed at it, Luke mewled and arched off the bed, forcing his little cock just deep enough to gag Hershel. He groaned around it and kept going.

Tracing the cleft of Luke’s rump, he gently pressed a finger inside, just enough that he could feel Luke’s muscles starting to twitch. Eyes unfocused, he didn’t know what Luke was rustling for until he slapped a vial of oil by his arm. Hershel ignored it. He had no intention of using it yet. He pressed deeper as he sucked harder.

Luke went tense, tight around his finger, but he started whimpering. Close, Hershel thought. He gentled his touch, let it slide up a bit to the thin patch of skin. He’d never done this to someone else, but Luke was quite small so it was easy to, indirectly, press on his prostate from there after a moment’s maneuvering.

Luke shouted when he came, fingers curled in Hershel’s hair. He tasted watery with a tinge of salt, and in any other context Hershel might have hated the taste, but he hungrily swallowed it down, longing for more, and pushed Luke’s thighs open.

He could’ve stopped there, he thought as he withdrew his finger, but his chest seared at the thought. Instead, Hershel kissed his shaft and moved his tongue to his little balls to slowly run his tongue over. He worked his tongue down to his entrance and began to run his tongue around the rim.

The moment his tongue touched the rim, Luke curled his fingers harsher into his auburn hair and pulled tight. “Stop! Let go!”

Hershel’s heart sank, immediately thinking his time was up. Surely that was it, then. He’d displeased Luke. He let his hands slide off his thighs, only for the boy to sandwich his head between them, his ankles crossing behind his neck.

He felt how badly Luke was shaking, and he could hear the boy’s heartbeat and his slow heavy breathing. 

“Keep going, Professah…” Luke breathed, and Hershel obliged, slipping his hands under Luke’s bottom to lift him and pushing his tongue inside. He flicked it inside and pulled away for a moment, feeling some of his drool dribbling down from his lip. 

“Please, dearest, let me open you up.” Hershel found himself begging.

“Nope.” Luke denied flatly, and Hershel felt his heart sink until the boy reached down to his own entrance, his chubby little thumb brushing over his balls and then pushing a finger inside himself, right to the knuckle. Yet, the boy kept his ankles crossed behind his head, and his fingers tightly curled into his hair. He couldn’t look away as Luke forced a second and third inside, but he wasn’t sure he’d have needed the restraint, mesmerized as he was.

Luke thrust his fingers as deeply as he could, and the slick sound of it with the boy’s little whines strained his control viciously. He wished desperately those were his fingers. His were much thicker, and they stretched the boy out _so so_ well for Hershel’s cock. He groaned, watching them disappear into him, until Luke squished his head between his thighs tighter.

“You’re grinding into the mattress, Professah. Stop it.”

Hershel began to feel the heat in his fingers. Arousal or death, he wasn’t sure. He heard displeasure in Luke’s voice. He wasn’t doing well enough; he surely hadn’t convinced the boy that he’d atoned. The heat intensified, and he quickly realized Luke was going to let him burn to ash. He knew Luke had always had a sadistic streak, but he’d never thought that the boy would use him for his own pleasure then let him disintegrate. 

“Please, please, _please_ let me fuck you.” Hershel felt tears brimming. “If you’re going to let me die, let me have you one last time.” He wasn’t begging for his life anymore. In the end, there was no Heaven for him but losing himself in Luke. If only for a moment, he could have it one more time. 

Luke did not respond, but his legs fell from around his head. Hershel pushed himself up and found himself gazing into the boy’s flushed face. He crossed his arms and kept his legs open.

“You have to use your fingers first.” Luke reminded him of the olive oil vial, letting it rest against his inner thigh. Hershel felt weak, he was shaking uselessly. He hated that he had to use his fingers first. It was almost funny, he’d wanted it so badly a moment ago, but now, it felt like a waste. They’d gone without preparation occasionally, and he’d been so perfect and tight, a pretty little doll crying and writhing on his cock. 

Luke would hurt, as petite as he was, and Hershel wanted that, needed to etch himself into Luke’s body again and again until he could never be forgotten. Still, he did as he was told and poured the oil over his fingers. His trembling hands got it over his hands and Claire’s bed. He couldn’t feel even the briefest regret for it. If he lived, he’d tell her the truth. She deserved that, but it was all he could give her. He had nothing left but Luke. 

The boy took the first finger easily and the second not long after. The singular feeling of Luke’s body as it closed around him had even on his worst days narrowed his focus to the single light in his life. Why had he fought this, he wondered intoxicated as the boy started to roll his hips onto Hershel’s fingers.

Luke strained as he worked himself and moaned low in his throat when Hershel added the third. Rationale worn away, he thought Luke seemed made for him or perhaps he’d molded Luke to him. The boy was too perfect to have come about naturally.

“I w-want you to do it.” Luke stuttered, finally. ”You’re allowed.”

It could be salvation, he thought, if he wasn’t too far gone. There was satisfaction in it, distantly, that he might be good enough, but the ritual was searing out into his limbs. All he could do was what he’d been permitted.

He pulled Luke half into his lap, carefully aligning his cock. He didn’t go in slow, couldn’t comprehend the thought. He bottomed out in one sharp thrust. The boy shouted incoherently, but apparently pleased, so Hershel moved faster, harder. The sweet sounds Luke was making tried to form themselves into words. 

“All you wanted was, haa, all you-” It fell apart into a moan until he could regain himself. “This is all you ever wanted, right? To use me? Is it worth it?” 

“I’m so sorry.” Hershel repeated into the boy’s skin, shifting until he was braced over the boy. Up close, the harshness fell away some. Hershel could see the tears brimming in his eyes. He kissed the boy’s cheeks, over his eyes, anywhere he could reach. 

“I am _so sorry_. I love you. I love you, my little treasure, my sweet. Oh, my boy, I’m so sorry.” The words couldn’t be stopped once they started, like the deepest parts of his mind were trying to escape his mouth. “You deserved better than this, better than me. A man worth you wouldn’t be so frightened you’d leave, my love, but I’ll never be enough.”

Luke started to cry, and he slowed his thrusts, until the boy slammed a little fist into his shoulder. 

“Don’t you dare!” Luke hissed. “Don’t you dare take this too, or I’ll just let you _burn!_ ” 

“I wish I could fix it.” Hershel confessed. A decade of work, and he’d do it over just to erase this week. “I would do anything to take this week away from you.”

“J-just-” The boy’s weeping took the words from him and he scratched at Hershel’s shoulders, trying to get closer. 

He started to move again, as the acid sear of the ritual and the pleasure of his boy stretched around him twined inside his chest. He was burning. He needed to ruin Luke, to mend him. He needed to write his love deep in every language, so no matter what, Luke would always know that Hershel loved him. 

The scratching intensified, little fingers digging into Hershel’s arms, as the boy’s cries turned into loud weeping. The pleasure in his face, the feel of the boy squirming beneath him, the quiet hiccuping between sobs, it all overwhelmed him. He crumbled over the boy, heavy on top of him, and he covered the boy’s mouth with one hand. It was too much. Any pretense of gentleness was gone, control beyond him completely. 

Cries muffled, Luke only got louder, hooking his legs around Hershel’s hips. They weren’t long enough to lock behind him, but it hardly mattered. He wasn’t going to stop. Hershel moved his hand to cover the boy’s mouth with his own. He wanted to swallow each little sob. 

Luke shook as though electrified, whining as he bucked up against Hershel. Body clamping down, as he spent himself on their stomachs. Hershel covered Luke’s mouth again, as he screamed, desperate to fuck him through his orgasm, but the feel of Luke coming apart left him coming to an uncontrollable climax as he buried his face in the bed to shout.

The pain and pleasure in his chest burned bright and exploded. Everything dimmed, as the world buzzed and flickered like a signal from too far away, then everything settled into a warmth that soothed and sent Hershel almost to tears. This can’t be death, he thought, it’s far too kind to me.

A small hand combed through his hair, and he struggled to shift himself off the small body beneath him. Luke’s eyes were unfocused and his face tear streaked, but he was smiling.

“Did you complete it?” He rasped, voice shot. “I feel...” Different, he thought. Rather, there was a space between them he’d lamented on his worst nights that no longer existed, like the line that made them separate people had been erased. “The pain is gone.”

“It’s done.” Luke whispered, face soft. “I believe you. You made bad mistakes, but I forgive you, and now we’ll be together forever and _ever_.”

“Forever?” It sounded unbelievable, that someone might love him for all his life after the things he’d done.

“Mhm.” Luke hummed, sleepily. “I’ll melt your brain if you try to leave me again, and just make sure the next time you’re more loyal.”

“Next time?” 

Luke’s eyes were, for a moment, far too old.

“Yes.”


	14. Rendezvous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hershel speaks to Claire for what he hopes is the last time, and Randall has a visitor while he waits for everything to shake out. Luke has been a very troubled child for a long time, but he's become so much worse.
> 
> When you start a fire, you must accept that there is a risk that it will get out of hand.
> 
> If you skipped last chapter, Luke and Hershel are now joined as one metaphysically, a single soul pooling between two bodies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 14 Trigger Warnings  
> Manipulation  
> Attempted Murder  
> Suicide Mention  
> Gore/Eye Injury  
> Simulated Torture  
> Luke in Lingerie  
> Hershel and Luke's terrible relationship and it's effects on Luke's mindset  
> Fire  
> Non Fatal Burns

Hershel sat in his office, rolling a carved silver ring back and forth with his thumb over the lacquered mahogany desk. Hours after Luke had melded their souls, he still felt a lingering warmth in his chest. He didn’t know if it would stop, if he wanted it to stop. Luke had only vaguely explained the effects. He didn’t seem to know anything but the most important points. It was entirely possible he just wasn’t sharing the information with Hershel, though. A part of him wondered if he was going to start developing some psychic abilities.

Something to look forward to, perhaps. For now, Claire was scheduled to return soon. He wasn’t sure what she knew based on how she’d acted, but considering the particularly unfriendly dinner they’d shared the other night, it seemed that she was at least suspicious. He’d also expected her back at least an hour ago. He decided it was time to face the inevitable. He’d just have to get ahead of her on this.

He had a plan for when Claire returned, and he thought Luke would be proud of him. He set the ring aside and pulled his jade fountain pen from a small ornate vase. Tapping it lightly on a scratch sheet, he looked over his paperwork. He’d managed to accrue a goodly pile of things needing his signature over the last few days.

Primarily, Odile’s needed to pass him information on their applicants before they could be approved for further consideration. Frustratingly, it looked as though Randall had given them the go ahead to take on temporary help. Miguel described her as a clever woman with a limp and long brown hair.

The issue with Claire _learning_ more than she needed to wasn’t particularly bothersome any longer. _How_ she’d found out was more worrying. It wasn’t impossible that she’d simply found out on her own, but it occurred to Hershel someone, a hero, may have sought her out for the purpose of turning her against him. They’d known he intended to bring her back, after all. A spy in his ranks would be useful to them, and it would make a good candidate for Claire’s ‘enlightenment’. Paranoia had once been a hindrance, had left him awake at night and wild-eyed. Now, he’d managed to twist it into a useful skill. It kept him safe and made him rich, but it felt more like a habit today than a compulsion. He’d still be looking into the shop girl, just in case.

The door opened, and Hershel’s eyes rose. He’d hoped for Luke to bound in with ready to keep him company, playing at his feet or napping in his lap. Instead, Claire slid inside and closed the door behind her, a wicker basket on her arm filled with sandwiches she must’ve brought from Odile’s.

“Claire.” Hershel smiled warmly as she pulled a chair close to sit down. “Dear, I have something to give you.”

“Oh, I just thought we could share these.” The woman set the basket down, brushing some hair behind her left ear. Somehow, looking at her face, Hershel felt nothing. Her smile seemed fake, but then again, his was. “You know you don’t have to give me anything, Hershel.”

“Thank you. I think you’ll find it isn’t quite a gift so much as a restoration.” Hershel opened the drawer and carefully drew an aluminium band with silver circuitry underneath the shell, sliding it over to Claire. The recall bracelet that would allow her to return to the past. Of course, when she used it, she would die. 

As planned, and as would have come with time, if he’d just left things alone.

Claire’s eyes fell over the bracelet, but she puppeteered a wider smile as she took it back to slip inside her little tote bag. He noted she did not put it on. Did she know what would happen or was she simply putting it off? He picked up the ring he’d been fussing with earlier.

She needed to use the bracelet.

“Your future self should be returning from that conference soon, so unfortunately your stay will have to end soon. You’ve never found the consequences of meeting yourself from another point in time, but she doesn’t want to risk it.” Hershel continued to roll the ring and maintain eye contact.

“That’s a shame.” Claire took a sandwich to nibble on. ”I really did enjoy exploring this time. I was hoping to stay a bit longer.” She added, in a tone that would be coy if she didn’t sound so uncomfortable. She was watching him from beneath her lashes.

“It is a shame.” Hershel said blandly.

They sat for a moment, opponents engaged in a silent war. He took her measure as he was sure she took his.

“I’m sure she won’t mind if I stay just another night.” Claire managed. “I saw something in our room that I’ve thought about _all day_.” The worst part was he’d have fallen for it a day ago, not from ignorance but desperation. The warmth resting deep in his chest, a constant reminder, freed him from it. He wasn’t alone.

“I appreciate that, but I’ll be busy all evening. Please do remember to say goodbye before you go.” He turned back to his paperwork, an obvious dismissal. Claire huffed.

“Yeah, see, that isn’t good enough.” She slammed her sandwich down onto his desk, splattering his papers and his suit. He raised his eyes to her scowling face. “I was trying to ignore it or put it off until later, but they were _panties_ , Hershel. Little ones!” She stood, chair clattering as she knocked it back.

“Ah, yes, I may as well tell you.” He said evenly. This would be much easier if that’s all she knew. How strange for her to be reduced to an obstacle after so long tearing the world apart for her. “I have a particularly petite lover. I suspected you only pretended not to know. I suppose this is proof. It’s rather like Randall’s cursing.”

“Don’t _lie._ ” She snarled. “Hershel, they’d have to be a toddler’s.” Claire was incandescent. The only comparison he had for it was a time she’d come home from the lab apoplectic about her superiors considering letting her go for a newly hired university graduate, suggesting her female brain would show its ‘ _flaws’_ in time. She definitely knew about Luke, then. “How old is he?” She hissed through her teeth. Hershel frowned.

“Young enough that you really should have done something about it, by now.” He said lightly. She flinched a bit but mostly looked frustrated with him. The suspicion that she knew everything crept back. He continued, keeping his voice pleasant. “Would you like to meet him? Your future self knows him well, you’ve made peace with each other. He quite likes you.” 

“I cannot believe you’re the man I left a decade behind me. What is _wrong_ with you?” 

“Clarity,” Hershel told her, simply. “The world is a terrible, antagonistic place, and instead of hiding from it in some mockery of ideals, I defended myself. I fought for the things I wanted, and I took control.” He hadn’t, though. He realized that he loved her, but he’d been chasing control of his life the whole time, not Claire. The way he felt now, bound to Luke, had eased that part of him that was frightened. He was whole, finally. Complete. He smiled genuinely for the first time since she walked into his office. “I’m _happy,_ Claire, but you could fix all of this, if you go back to the past.”

“Or die trying? I’ll be staying here, thank you.” She did know, then. “Can you even hear yourself? The murderer you keep as a pet is a better man than you. That poor child, what did you even do with him? I heard Randall say he woke up.”

"I married him. Mm, or rather, he married me, quite forcefully in fact." Hershel preferred to let her suffer the death that had taken her the first time, but as that looked unlikely, he’d have to do it himself. Randall really was only around when one would prefer he not be. Hershel stood smoothly. “I would really like you to meet him. He’s such a lovely child.”

She backed away as he stepped around his desk, and they both startled at the door hitting the wall as it slammed open.

* * *

Generally, when Randall had to do as much shit as he had today, it was a terrible day, but today was just weird enough to be fun. Luke had woken up too powerful and seething, a neat mix, and he’d destroyed all of his toys, a door, a lamp, and Hershel’s chances of fucking Randall’s replacement again. Luke had asked for help setting up what he’d called “a soul melding marriage ritual so we can be married forever or he can fucking die.” Hearing the word “fuck” come from such a sweet tiny kid had been as jarring as it was funny, but Luke had a temper. 

He’d helped out, even got to fuck up the basement a little. He hadn’t bothered to check on Hershel. The man was alive, or he wasn’t. Luke hadn’t come to him, whether to ask to be taken somewhere else or announce a takeover, so he wasn’t sure what was going to happen now.

He waited for news in the parlour. It was relatively central to the house, and a comfortable place to have tea. Halfway through his pot, the door creaked open, and Randall turned his head. It wasn’t Luke or even Hershel. Instead, the Clockwork Apostle stood again unmasked in front of him. He was properly dressed today, a white suit with gold detailing, and it took him from handsome to ravishing.

Randall licked his lips and stood, drawing his knife from his inner jacket. Shushing him, the Apostle put up his hands as if to soothe him. Randall raised an eyebrow, but left his hand in his jacket.

“Look, I’m not here to attack you.”

“Then, why are you here?” He’d never gotten to see the man’s insides. A quick look over his slim form and Randall thought he could imagine it. The thin sickly yellow layers of fat against his red meat and blue veins, and he felt a rising hunger to gaze upon it. Unfortunately, he had questions first. “How did you get in?”

“ _Randall._ ” The Apostle whispered, raising his hands to show he was unarmed. “My name is Clive Dove. I’m here to help you.”

“What could you do to help me?” Randall whispered, stalking closer as he pulled the knife and raised it high. He did wonder why he was so quick to give out his name, though.

Clive brushed himself down and sighed, clearing his throat. He didn’t show any signs of fear. If anything, he looked faintly irritated as one hand had slid down into a bulging pocket at the side of his dress pants. He was armed, likely with that revolver. Randall almost laughed. Pocketing a pistol was the sort of thing _he_ would do. “I have someone who’d like to meet you, Randall Ascot.”

“And why would anyone want to meet me?” Randall blinked and found hysterical laughter bubbling at the back of his throat.

Clive drew his hands from his pocket to hold his hands out again. Randall wondered if the man could read his clashing emotions on his face. That wasn’t good. “His name is Henry Ledore. He lives up north in that artificial desert town.”

Randall did vaguely remember a strange oasis city in an artificial desert he’d passed a couple times. Years ago, before he’d been taken in by Hershel and _domesticated_ , he’d passed by it. Not many thoughts passed through his mind then, but he recalled the distant unearthly lights. He stayed far, far away from it. Even then he’d known walking into a city while drenched in blood was a death sentence.

“He’s been contacting everyone in the country who’s registered as a hero.” Clive hastily explained. “He’s looking for an ancient mask that was believed to be last in the possession of _someone_ who _supposedly_ died 20 years ago named Randall Ascot.”

Randall felt his grip loosen.

“Ancient mask?”

“Look, I sent the guy a letter back to say I _might_ have met someone with that name, and he said he’d be willing to talk to you about your past and everything if you could show me where the mask is.” Clive spoke sweetly. “He worked as a servant for your family when you were a teenager.”

There was a pang in his skull. The cellar had rooms that weren’t for magic. The important ones were a makeshift interrogation room, a ‘punishment’ room for those too useful to dispose of permanently, and a vault of incredibly important artifacts. Hershel had locked the Mask of Chaos in its own safe, inside the vault. Randall had been told never to touch it again or get it _anywhere near_ Luke. The threats that followed had been relatively creative even for a man who occasionally had employees non-fatally eaten.

That had actually happened to him, once. He’d been teasing Luke about slipping the mask on him while he slept, and the child had ran to Hershel crying. He ordered Randall to take a vial to Mr. Hallens, who’d been on property, and the man had instructed Randall to drink. Then, Hallens had eaten him whole. It was something he didn’t think about often if he could help it, an afternoon dissolving and wanking as petty revenge. Somehow, the part that stuck with him the most was the horror of reshaping out of bile inside the bathtub, as the vial he’d drank had bound his soul to his very matter. Hallens had offered him tea once he'd stopped screaming.

He shook the memory off. He needed to make a decision. He lived a relatively comfortable life here. Hershel had retaught him a lot of what most people considered basic skills, and ensured that all of his needs were met. He’d trusted Hershel to be relatively honest with him, but as he was finding, that was terrifically naive. Information from someone who wasn’t using him would be _incredible_.

And even better, he’d have his mask back.

“I can show you.” Randall whispered. Trembling, he waved the man after him.

“I… really didn’t think it would be that easy after what happened with Luke.” The man spoke quietly and followed just behind Randall. This close, Randall could see a red stain on one of the man’s eyes. It made that hunger rise again. “I brought proof, in case you wanted it.”

“I do.” He managed to say, pulling his eyes away from the wound to the rest of the man’s face. “Just once this is over. It’s better not to get distracted, even if we probably have some time right now.” It would be easier to estimate how much time they had, if he had any idea what was happening.

He led Clive through the long halls and down some stairs into the dank, musty cellars. There were turn offs for the other rooms before the ritual room, but the magic vault was built into the far wall of it. You had to know the right place to push to open the wall to even see the vault door. After he tapped it, it swung open. The vault itself was simple, a combination lock on the door.

Clive gasped when it opened. Paintings bolted to the wall, velvet carpet and piles of gems and gold. A couple artifacts Hershel didn’t want to display in his office. Clive’s eyes were drawn to some shelves with several solid gold idols. Despite all the wealth and riches in such a small room, Randall only had eyes for one thing. At the far corner of the vault, the Mask’s safe sat welded to the floor with a metre radius of empty space around it. Hershel hadn’t wanted to risk it “infecting” anything.

Randall had been forced to leave the room before the combination was set, but somehow the numbers had seared themselves into his brain the moment he wondered what the correct combination was. 283794. It took him longer to get to the vault than open it, and in a matter of heartbeats, he was holding the Mask of Chaos in his bare hands once more.

“-to me, so I can get it to Mr. Ledore.” 

Randall looked up. 

“You didn’t hear me at all, did you? Give it to me, so I can get it to Mr. Ledore.”

“No.” Instinctive, but it was his only answer. “It’s my mask. I can find the guy myself.” 

Clive heaved a sigh, putting a hand to his cheek.

“You said yes already. Can I ask why?”

“ _It’s my mask._ ” Randall repeated, emphatic. “It belongs to me.” I should put in on, he heard it more than thought it, stroking his thumb over one side. There was something very freeing about being a nightmare given flesh, a being that thrived on nothing but chaos and blood.

“You seem very attached.” Clive put on a deliberately calming and condescending tone, and Randall felt loathing rise into his throat. “Can I ask why?”

“It’s all I had for years.” Randall cradled it in his hands, feeling the cool, smooth stone against his sweating palms. “It’s not something I want to let go of.”

“How am I supposed to get it to Mr. Ledore, then?” Clive murmured, his eyes roaming across the walls. He had his eyes on a painting they’d stolen.

“We’re a package deal.” Randall decided. “I hold onto the mask, and you take me to Mr. Ledore.”

Clive’s eyes moved from the stolen painting down to the mask in Randall’s hands. Only then, Randall realized his hands were shaking as he clutched it.

“Is there a reason you don’t want me to touch it?” Clive questioned.

Randall turned the mask over in his hands to gaze on the engravings on the inside. Faded gold engravings in a language he would never understand. He wondered if _anyone_ understood it.

“It cursed me.” Randall spoke deathly seriously, making eye-contact with the man.

Clive raised an eyebrow and slipped his hands into his pockets. 

“Both Hershel and I, actually. I don’t know how much you know about us.” As Randall stared at the inner engravings, he felt a familiar clamp on his brain. Yet, he brightened. “It’s awful, I guess, but there’s something about it, wearing it, you almost feel like the world moves at your command. Like you could perform all sorts of miracles.”

“What would happen if I put it on?” Clive breathed, and a needle of precise pain stabbed Randall’s skull.

“Nothing, immediately.” Randall tore his gaze from the mask back to the suited man standing with him. “It might take a while for anything to show up. It took Hershel months for symptoms to emerge.”

“You know that sounds like self pitying bullshit, right?” Clive said. “That you’re bad because a mask got mad at you?”

“Oh, no, we’re both definitely choosing to be like this.” Randall said with a cheerful undercurrent of violent energy. Clive’s eyes, he thought, would be lovely in a glass paper weight. “Death is always an option, and anyway, Hershel managed to act normal for years just fine before he started letting his dick make decisions.”

“Would you actually kill yourself?” Clive asked with a raised eyebrow, sounding sincerely curious.

“Yeah, I mean, if I wanted to, I’d do it. Unlike Hershel, I’m not scared.” He didn’t look convinced, but it wasn’t really Randall’s problem. “We should get out of here, soon. Someone’s going to come looking for me, eventually.”

“Claire said the kid woke up earlier. How is he?” Randall took the stairs two at a time, relatively quietly, as Clive clambered up the stairs behind him.

“ _Livid_ ,” Randall said. “After the last few days. I’m not actually sure Hershel’s going to live through it.”

“I noticed he had a temper.” Clive rubbed his hands together. “Good for him, though. We were going to help him out. Do you think he needs it?” 

‘We’ meant other people, and though Clive hadn’t mentioned a time frame, Randall doubted the younger man had come to see him just for the mask. Anyway, he had places to be, and he doubted Luke needed his help.  
“I-”

He heard a clatter of boots going too fast. Too heavy to be Luke running, and he wasn’t sure if it was Hershel either. Then lighter footsteps racketing past, and harsh barking. Pesto was chasing someone.

* * *

Luke ran a comb over Elaine’s short, plush fur, biting his lip and staring into her black marble eyes. He sat cross-legged on his and Hershel’s bed, knowing he had servants hurrying to restore his playroom at his request. For now, he had to have some _words_ with the otter.

He’d burned so many of his other stuffed animal friends, and he was still in mourning until he could replace them - he was going to make the Professah visit The Puzzle Piece to pick up his new friends soon. 

“Elaine.” He booped her embroidered nose and glared sternly. “You were at my bedside, watching me drift so close to death. Yet, once I woke up, you thought it would be appropriate to be mean to me!”

He pursed his lips and gripped her by the scruff of her neck, pointing a finger at her. “Just because you’re on a diet doesn’t mean I need to go on one too!”

Her silly diet meant she was only going to be eating only vegetables. No bread, either! No matter what he offered her she wouldn’t eat! She even turned down chocolate truffles. He thought the diet had made her grumpy. She'd been terribly rude since he woke up.

“For your punishment-” Luke grabbed a sharp knife he’d stolen from the kitchen, jabbing the plush with the tip above a black marble eye. “I’m taking these.”

Unfortunately, hurting people was the most effective way to teach them to do better, but Elaine could have her eyes put back once she apologized. He dug the knife behind her eye and cut the little short threads holding it in. The eye rolled into his hand. 

He paused for several seconds and let a sympathetic look slide onto his face. “I’m sorry, Elaine, you can have it back when you start behaving better.”

Luke set the knife down onto the duvet until he heard fast heavy footsteps behind the door. Someone was running, and he heard Pesto’s voice from the inside of his skull as she barked and ran by outside.

“ _Get out! Get out! Intruder!”_

Luke dropped the loose eye onto the night table and the knife on the bed. Still holding Elaine, he toddled to the door to peek out and saw Pesto chasing someone around the corner at the end of the hall. He considered following.

The Professah had had some of his clothes brought to the room, too, and while he didn’t mind lounging in lingerie, the thin training bra and lacy robe were less than he was used to wearing in front of other people. It didn’t help that he couldn’t find the right panties either, and he certainly wasn’t going to wear ones that didn’t match.

The barking faded into the distance. Heroes, probably, he thought, and he worried. They weren’t really a threat now. Luke would be fine, even if they snuck up on him. Hershel, though, and Randall were in much more danger. He squeezed Elaine and set her aside before stepping out into the hall.

He went to the office, first. Randall was summoned by mayhem, so they’d find him if they got close to any trouble, but Hershel was waiting for Claire to get back. He said something about getting her out of the house. The ritual was done, so Luke trusted him. There was nothing Hershel could hide, if Luke wanted to know. Anyway, they were married now, and whatever came before didn’t mean anything. He held on to that, even though he suspected it wouldn’t really be that easy. The door was shut when he got there, strident voices carrying into the hall.

“I would really like you to meet him. He’s such a lovely child.” Luke squinted, and the quiet moment that followed was straining. Scowling, Luke flicked an arm out at the door, and it crashed into the wall. Hershel stood just outside of arm’s length of Claire, but the genuine fear on their faces soothed Luke’s nerves. Scared people obeyed.

“Professah, there are people in the house that shouldn’t be.” Luke informed the man. 

“Those are friends of mine. Real, live heroes,” Claire said softly, obviously focused on Luke. “They’re here to take us someplace safe. We’re going to make sure you never have to see _him_ again.” She continued, not looking away. Her voice was too sweet, too gentle. Fake, he thought, she was trying to handle him gently, but after what she’d done to his life by _existing_ , her compassion, her _condescension_ infuriated him. “What are- Those clothes don’t look very comfortable. Why don’t we get you a nice knickerbocker suit? Or even something with long pants, hmm?” 

“You want to help people that kidnapped me kidnap me again.” He translated, unamused. “And I’m thirteen, not four. Don’t treat me like I’m stupid.” She looked surprised, but she stepped closer.

“Luke, I don’t think you’re stupid. I think you deserve better than this, and you’re young. This is all you know, but it doesn’t have to be. You can be a kid again, play and make friends and never have to do these sorts of things ever again.” Luke rolled his eyes and flung her like he had the door. 

“If anybody ever asked what I wanted, you’d know to leave me alone!” He snapped at her as she crumbled against the desk. “I’m not a ‘kid’, and I don’t want to be. I’m...” What was he? A glittering consort, but he was the one with the power now. Not a helpless innocent child anymore, not in any traditional sense, but not an adult the way the people around him were. “I’m- I’m Luke Layton, and I'm a villain, just like them.”

They were his, Hershel and Randall. He loved them, but more than that, they had made him. They had piled corpses at his feet, buried him in them, and instead of suffocating under the weight, Luke burned them and built a throne from what remained. Hershel’s soul and empire belonged to him and the closest thing Randall felt to loyalty as well. 

Claire looked up at him from where she'd fallen with stunned, fearful eyes. Unmoved, Luke ignored her, turning to Hershel. There was a storm in him that dispersed and fizzled to nothing when he saw the man offer his hands, smiling affectionately.

"Hello, my love." The Professah said, voice warm and low, when Luke wrapped his hands around a finger on each of his hands. He found himself smiling back. "You look divine." Luke fluttered his lashes playfully.

"These old things? I’m not even properly dressed. I couldn’t find the matching panties, after all.” He teased, lightly squeezing Hershel’s thick fingers. 

"Oh?" The man looked intrigued, pulling Luke closer. Confused at first, he realized Hershel had angled him a particular way. He was showing Luke off to Claire. 

A mean thrill went through him, and he could see it in Hershel too. The binding ritual had side effects, he knew, but hadn't expected them to have such deep roots so soon. It was Luke's originally, the need to punish her for taking his place, but they were sharing it now. 

Hershel dipped his head to kiss him, and Luke wondered for a moment if she'd cry the way he had. Their lips touched, a chaste kiss, but Claire gagged like they’d done something obscene. Luke stood on tiptoe and pushed to deepen the kiss into something fiercer. He bit Hershel’s lip, and the man’s composure cracked, groaning and slipping a hand out of Luke’s fingers to cup his cheek.

Luke heard the sound of displaced air and fluttering paper as a book crashed Hershel’s temple. His hat hit the floor a moment after, loud in the echoing silence, and he clutched his head. Claire stood shaking, another book in her hand.

“He is a _monster._ It’s ok if you don’t understand right now. We’re going to save you, Luke.” Claire spoke firmly, standing her ground and maintaining a strong posture. The edge of the book had broken the skin of Hershel’s forehead, and a stream of blood ran down his grimacing face.

The rage that destroyed his playroom welled up in his chest, and it radiated out from him like heat from a flame. Hershel flinched, but Luke couldn’t stifle the wave that scorched around them, so he wrapped it around them instead.

“Luke?” Despite the obvious discomfort, Hershel stepped closer. “Love, what’s happening?”

“I have it under control.” Luke insisted, snappy. He tried to curve the waves around them, and the air cooled. The floor began to slowly blacken and sear, though, as Hershel stepped closer.

“Get away from him.” Claire ordered, lobbing the book she was holding towards them. It turned to ash in the air as it soared over Luke’s head, and the fury spiked. The charred circle of rug around them started to expand, the fibers smoking.

“You’ve used up the last of my patience.” He told her, as though he ever intended to let her go. “Now, you have to be punished.” Luke shifted to face her, and the heat intensified. There was crackling from the floor, glowing with embers. The paperwork and basket on the desk burst into flames. 

Luke jumped back into Hershel, who shot him a worried look. Luke ran through the part of his brain that had helped him construct the ritual, panicked, but it blurred into nothing. He simply needed control, but when he pulled up more power to try, the entire desk burned instead.

“We need to leave.” Hershel told him quietly, hand on his shoulder. Scowling, Luke watched Claire, creeping around the burning edges of the circle towards the door. 

“I thought you were going to _save me?_ ” He taunted. 

“Maybe not today.” She admitted. “But we’ll get you out of here, ok?” Claire was looking at the window, probably gauging how far she would fall.

He snarled and moved to push at her, but the sound of barking and someone thundering down the hall in heavy boots drew his attention.

" _Intruder!"_ Pesto bellowed in harsh barks, her voice reverberating in his skull. " _You kidnapped my boy!"_

A woman in yellow rocketed into the office through the open door, slamming it behind her. Loudly, Pesto hit the door and started frantically scratching at it, trying to dig through the wood. She was familiar, Luke realized. She looked like the woman who had caught him outside the fence. Long brown hair, still wearing yellow, and without thinking Luke took the energy itching in his fingers and grabbed her.

The flames jumped, and around them the slow burn flared into a high blaze.

“ _Luke, I can smell you in there!_ ” Pesto screamed, audibly terrified from outside. “ _Little’un, we need to leave!_ ”

Luke threw the flailing woman into the fire.

“Emmy!” Claire shouted, running to her. The women were scorched but hardly injured. Luke stepped towards them, stopped by a heavy hand on his shoulder. He glared up at Hershel.

“The smoke is too thick.”

“You don’t want me to kill her, then?” Luke hissed dangerously. Hershel shook his head and tapped the pistol beneath his jacket. 

“We have to be quick or do it later.”

“Shoot her for me? Both of them?” He asked sweetly with big eyes. “I can hold them still for you.”

“ _Randall!_ ” Pesto shouted outside the door. “ _Randall, they’re in here! Help me get the door open, there’s smoke!”_

“Jesus Christ, animal, what the fuck do- Is the office _smoking_?”

“We need to get out of here, and that’s a pretty solid distraction.”

“Fuck you, pretty boy, this is still my house!”

The door wretched open, fanning the blaze, and Randall stood in the frame, glaring. Pesto tore passed him to pace outside the circle of flame. Randall stared wide-eyed at them.

“I’m disappointed in everyone here, but we need to leave.”

“We have to kill them!” Luke argued through wracking coughs from the smoke. Hershel scooped him up in a single motion.

“Randall’s right.” The smoke was so thick the only thing perfectly visible was all the fire. “Another day.” 

Luke tried to scream, to object, but the air hurt his throat and eyes. He clung to Hershel’s coat eyes tightly shut, and the man tucked him out of the way as he ran through the fire, Pesto at his heels. 

Luke pushed the flames higher behind them. If no one else would deal with the heroes, he would. Clive shouted, moving to help the women, but Hershel carried him away like a bride through the halls as the conflagration escaped the office and began to quickly eat away at the priceless wood and paintings on the walls.

Hershel didn’t stop running until they were well out into the untouched gardens. Randall lagging a bit behind, followed by the charred heroes. Servants were gathering by the gate though not all of them. A woman was crying.

Rosa, Luke realized, he’d made Rosa cry. One of her hands was badly burned. He turned back to the mansion. He’d left Elaine behind. His clothes, the toys that had survived his first rage, their bed, his _house_. The mansion had been most of his life, a sanctuary, a prison, a grave, and a wedding chapel. 

“I’m sorry,” Luke whispered, turning wet, horrified eyes to Hershel, but the man was watching the heroes. 

Clive was doing something. He could hear clockwork screeching even at such a distance.

“Potestas.” Hershel hissed to Luke and Randall who was lingering nearby looking tense, Pesto growling softly at Hershel’s feet. 

Potestates were much smaller than the Metatron, with a transparent glass cockpit. Its weaponry was exposed and much deadlier - Luke could identify a flamethrower on one arm and a large cutting blade on the other. He'd seen great gashes in concrete left behind by the spinning blade. Hershel crushed Luke tight to him, but the boy wasn’t scared. He’d burned the world three times today.

Luke was able to reach out a hand, quietly focusing his attention on the man in the cockpit. He gathered power from the air around and waggled his fingers to agitate the air around the glass, considering crushing the capsule in a vacuum.

“Don’t!” Randall noticed what Luke was attempting and skidded in the gravel next to the pair. “I… Need him, for something.”

Randall looked sad, Luke thought. He looked at the house, at Rosa, then the heroes. Clive in his tin toy, the woman Claire called Emmy in a fighting stance stood beside him. A grim, ash-smudged Claire stood with them, unarmed but head held high. Neither Hershel nor Randall moved. He realized they were waiting on his decision.

“Tell them if they leave right now, they can live until I see them again.” Luke decided aloud.

Randall nodded and walked purposefully towards the man in the mech. “Why didn’t you start with that?”

“We didn't want casualties!” The man shouted back, like Randall was stupid. Luke thought they looked like they were having fun.

“I’m sure the massive fire was much safer, thanks.” They bickered more quietly as Randall stepped closer. After a few minutes, Clive stood down, though he didn’t remove the Potestas. The women relaxed some.

“I’m sorry.” Luke repeated. Some of the things Hershel had collected were priceless, but the man smiled gently and kissed him.

“It’s alright, my dear. It would be best for us to get out of the country for a bit anyway.” He nodded to where Randall was shouting at a red faced Clive. The younger man slammed his fist into one of the cockpit windows, as Emmy and Claire looked on. “I was thinking... I have a house in Cannes you’ve never seen. Do you think you might enjoy spending our honeymoon on the French Riviera?”

“Oh, I would!” Luke brightened and put his hands together. “When can we go?” He quickly realized there wouldn’t be anything to pack, his face falling once again.

“I think it would be best to take Pesto and find boat tickets immediately.” Hershel murmured solemnly. 


	15. A French Honeymoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hershel and Luke, back where they began, in some ways, and in others, worlds away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well A/N: This story has been a hell of a lot of fun, and I hope you enjoy.  
> Chapter 15 Trigger Warnings:  
> Threats  
> Burgeoning signs of PTSD  
> A psychic mentions rewiring a brain a bit  
> Finally, Hershel and Luke are, once more, in a relationship.

“We can simply make him wait, my dear.” The Professah said, as Luke tugged on his heels. Real ones, he thought proudly, an inch and a half high. He’d decided that as he was a proper villain now, he should look the part. At least, he should dress a little more elegantly for a meeting. Unfortunately, he went to bed much up too late the night before, for Pesto’s puppies to be born, and he’d slept late. He’d scolded her for carousing with some strange Brittany not long after they’d arrived, but recently, he found himself terribly excited.

“He’s already going to wait.” Luke pointed out. There was a power dynamic inherent in making someone wait for you, but the trick was not pushing far enough that they didn’t want to deal with you. Descole would probably be reaching that point even if they were running perfectly on schedule.

They didn’t really need his help, but the Professah didn’t have the same base in France as he did at home. It would be much easier if they could keep from working crosswise with Descole.

Villains had long ago set up an organization to keep from stepping on each others’ toes too much. When heroes fought, someone said something passive aggressive on the radio, and then they dramatically made up for the papers. When villains fought, it changed the geography. The meetings were usually much larger, but the one scheduled for that day really only involved Hershel’s and Descole’s work. 

“He can wait longer, then. He’s hardly worth your feeling poorly all day. If you’re really worried about his feelings, I could go alone.” Hershel’s voice turned teasing.

“I can take a nap later.” Luke said testily, irritated by the coddling. He also wasn’t particularly pleased by the thought of sending Hershel to see someone alone. “Let’s go.” He stood and led the way to the car as Hershel chuckled.

Luke tied a thin silk scarf tight over his cloche hat and brushed out the straight lines of his calf length dress when he sat down. The driver turned on the car as Hershel sat. 

“I’m sorry, my love, I shouldn’t tease you so.” He spoke just loud enough to be heard over the engine. “You’re terribly cute like this, growing up into such a strong willed young man.” Luke sat a little straight, and smiled at him.

“Am I handsome, too, then?”

“Incredibly.” The man said, dropping a chaste kiss on his lips. “May I?” He lifted an arm, and giggling, Luke tucked himself underneath it, snuggling close.

The ride passed quickly, Hershel snuck little kisses high on his neck and whispered trivia to him about places they passed. 

“You must like it here, to know so much.” He asked. “Why live in London?”

Hershel hummed, thinking it over.

“I love London.” He finally admitted. “It has a reputation for being dreary, but there’s a beauty in that. I can’t imagine spending my life anywhere else.”

“I think I want to travel.” Luke said, as the car stopped.

“Did you say something?” Hershel asked, but Luke shook his head. 

The place Descole designated as their meeting place was a massive hotel, gorgeously decorated. He seemed to have rented the entire building for their meeting, as they were greeted by staff at the door and led through an otherwise empty building.

Finally, at the end of a long hallway, they reached a stately ballroom. Descole sat sneering, in costume, at the head of a long table that was covered with a large charcuterie board and vases of orchids.

“I suppose I shouldn’t expect better of you, _Layton_.” He spoke it like a curse. “Did you get distracted playing dress up? No matter, we need to talk about the trade routes for the Amnetic lilies.”

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Jean. I’ve been quite well.” The Professor replied, acidic. “I will assume the same of you since I doubt you’ll do anything so polite as to simply speak to me. This is my husband, Luke.” He gestured at Luke.

“We’re acquainted, unfortunately.” Luke reminded them, but Descole had puffed up like an angry cat.

“This is not a social call!” He stood in a flash, sending the chair screeching back.

“ _You_ were the one vying for my attention, I remind you.” Hershel spoke quietly.

There was silence between them for a moment, then Descole smirked, stepping around the table.

“I suppose you intend to give it to me, then?” He said as he neared, eyes locked on Hershel’s.

Luke rolled his eyes and took the man’s seat as they continued to speak. This wasn’t the first villain meeting he’d been to, but it was the first he’d attended as a partner rather than a guest.

“Mister Descole?” He called when he was seated comfortably. The man looked over and snarled. “Want to see my new trick?” Without waiting for an answer, he clicked his fingers, and the vases melted, burning through the table.

Ashen, the man flicked his eyes to the Professah, who was looking at Luke with helpless frustration. Luke grinned.

“We should do the meeting, now.” Luke said. The underlying order sank in, but even furious, Descole must have known he was outmatched because he simply sat, pale and glaring.

Meetings were as dull as a participant as they were as an observer, Luke quickly discovered. They mostly argued about routes and prices. What was more interesting was the way they felt when Luke extended his senses out. They both had a bitter, broken feeling that lingered around one another. Nothing threatening to Luke personally, but it was a little funny to think about, as he watched them circle each other like predators. 

Hershel had some kind of lingering family sentiment. That wasn’t going to happen. The man had Luke, and Luke had him. When Luke pulled, he found that Descole, in return, had a virulent hate, flavored with disappointment, disgust, and a tinge of possessiveness. 

The boy narrowed his eyes, and heat filtered into the room, slowly. He’d gotten better at holding back from making flames, partly because he still hadn’t figured out how to calm them down once they were there. He could tell when the men noticed, the Professah first going stiff in his chair and Descole digging his fingers into the table a minute later.  
“Are we boring you, _child?_ ” He hissed. “Perhaps, you might consider going outside to play.”

The petulant ‘yes’ died on his tongue. 

“Of course not! But perhaps,” The boy mocked, letting animal talk creep into his own hiss. “The two of you should get to the _point_.” 

“Do you intend to threaten me?” The man said, drawing himself up.

The thing about Descole, Luke had found, was that he was generally much, much softer than anyone else with which they did regular business. Not a hero, but not a villain quite the way they were, for all of his big talk and wild schemes. His eyes locked with Descole’s. 

“Yes.” Luke said, smile glinting sharp and bright as a blade. “You can’t prove it, and I’m not completely official yet, even if you could.” A silent moment weighed heavily on them.

The man threw himself out of his chair, and Luke’s grin widened.

“I don’t need this! I have better things to be doing. Layton!” He ended, with a shout. “Do as you please, I no longer have the patience for you and your pet.”

 _Weakling._ Luke thought pettily as the man stomped out. The Professah sighed deeply.

“Now that the negotiation is over, we have one more thing we must attend to before we eat.”

* * *

The second drive was meant to be shorter, but it felt much slower filled with somber quiet. Though he was often pleased by it, the Professah still had trouble with their new power dynamic, sometimes. 

If the meeting had been just a few months ago, he would have left Luke home or worse, brought him along to be perched quietly on the man’s lap as the meeting dragged on for hours. Now, though, ignoring Luke, putting him away, was impossible, and the man’s need for control bristled at it. Luke imagined he’d be a complete nightmare if they weren’t bonded.

He felt the man’s meager psychic weight pressing into their connection, and he leaned his head against the man’s arms. When he pressed inside, the man shuddered and smiled softly at him.

“Ah, it seems we’re here.” Hershel said as the car slowed to a stop. A small, high end department store loomed as they stepped out, Hershel’s broad hand bracing Luke as he stepped down.

“Another meeting?” Luke asked, lightly. He shook his head.

“Actually, I have a purchase I need to check on before it’s delivered to the house.” He opened the door for Luke.

Bright, twinkling electric lights were strung strategically, highlighting the carefully arranged displays and beautifully dressed mannequins. Luke shivered a bit, pressing into Hershel’s side as they walked. They hadn’t always scared him, but something about their uncanny painted features reminded him of the strange faces that had waited for him Outside during Hershel’s ritual.

Sometimes, when he dreamed, he saw them waiting for him still, just beyond the barrier. 

Hershel rested his broad hand on Luke’s shoulder and guided him to a counter to speak with a shop girl. Luke’s French had improved considerably since coming to Cannes, but his attention lagged, still nervous. He could feel Hershel was only passively attracted to her, more interested in whatever he’d bought, and that was really all he needed to know. Instead, he let his mind wander with his eyes, feeling out the store.

The hand on his shoulder squeezed lightly, and Luke came back to Earth. The man smiled gently down at him, eyes concerned. Luke shook his head.

“We should follow her, then. If you see anything, please let me know.” He said, making Luke giggle. The comment was a formality, more of an inside joke than a real request. Months after moving in, Luke had already started crossing out the handful of things in toy catalogues he didn’t want because it was faster.

“What _did_ you buy?” Luke asked. The difference in size between them was too much for Luke to take the man’s arm as they walked, but close enough that he could at least reach up to hold a couple of Hershel’s fingers. Hershel hummed, rubbing his thumb over Luke’s fingers.

“It’s quite a variety, primarily replacements for things we lost in the fire. Linens, curtains, etcetera.” Luke sighed loudly, already bored. “I did get a small surprise for you.”

“Really?” Luke brightened. “I do love surprises. What did you buy me?”

“It’s hardly a surprise if I tell you, and I’m sure you’ll be disappointed if you check.”

Luke knew that Hershel had been planning something for him for at least a month, so he was inclined to agree. After all this time, the surprise needed to be lived to be worth the wait.

“I _suppose._ ” He whined all the same, playing his part, as the shop girl unlocked a side door for them. 

They entered a thin, snaking hall after Hershel thanked her and waved her off. The light blue walls and sandy brown carpeting put Luke in mind of the paintings he’d seen of Monte d’Or, and Luke wondered how Randall and Clive were fairing. 

They’d tried very hard to stay out of his sight, but Randall either didn’t understand the explanation of his new powers or hadn’t been listening, since he apparently thought Luke wouldn’t notice another person in the house. They ran off together to go see some old friend of Randall’s, apparently. 

It wasn’t unusual to go a long time without hearing from Randall; the man acted like a stray cat at the best of times, after all. Still, Luke was beginning to miss him. 

The Professah opened a door and held it, waving Luke inside a large office. Luke’s already light steps were muffled by the plush, velvet carpet. The office was lavish, with well stuffed burgundy furniture and a broad mahogany desk covered in boxes. 

A man with a thin moustache standing over four large chests whipped up his head, smiling. 

“Hello!” He welcomed them in a heavy, cheerful French accent, waving them close. “Hello, Mister Layton, come in. A bit early, but that’s just fine!”

“Mm, yes, my earlier business ended early unexpectedly.” Hershel continued in French, low voice a caress. “ _Everything is here, then?_ ” The man nodded and looked a bit relieved as he answered in French as well.

“ _Yes, sir. Everything you asked for in, what looks to me, to be an exemplary state. Please feel free to inspect it. The linens in the first, the clothing in the second, and the miscellaneous are in the last. The specialty items are in the boxes._ ” 

“ _If you’ll excuse us for a few moments?_ ” Hershel asked.

“ _Of course, of course!_ ” The man crowed, as he stepped out. “ _Please take your time, Sir._ ” 

“That seems a smidge too trusting.” Luke commented, surprised as the door shut. 

“Most people are.” Hershel said, in obviously good humor as he opened the linen chest. “It helps that I have already paid them a great deal of money.”

The first chest is, as the man implied, linens. It was towels of varying sizes and uses, tablecloths, napkins, those sorts of things. Thankfully, it only took a moment for Hershel to open the next one.

It was clothing, yes, but clearly made with Luke in mind. The boy squealed and dove in. It was filled with gauzy robes, skirts, dresses, and soft night clothes. Among them, he found a high necked shirt crossed with ribbon that he was already pairing with a black silk skirt. Something was missing, though.

“There aren’t any underthings?” Luke asked, rubbing an especially soft nightgown between his fingers.

“A bit further down. It’s a bit late, but I thought you might appreciate a proper trousseau all the same.”

“Um… I’m not sure I’m understanding that word correctly.” Luke admitted, but Hershel chuckled.

“Ah, I suppose it wouldn’t have come up for you, but a trousseau is a hope chest, of sorts, reserved for one’s marriage.” 

Luke beamed, diving deeper into the chest. He found lavish silk lingerie, in all sorts of colors, real silk hose, and a small jewelry box filled with rings, bracelets, and earrings. None of them were necklaces, Luke realized amused fingers coming to his pendant. 

Under the frippery were private things. There were sashes and collars and cuffs, not all sized for him. A few dresses much more adult in style than he was used to were folded over a harness neatly packaged with a variety of dildos obviously made to fit it. There were other things, totally new to him mixed in, and he took a moment to look them over. Metal rods, something that looked like a cage with a lock on it. He looked up at Hershel.

The man, generally shameless, flushed a little.

“It’s a chastity cage. It allows someone to lock another’s genitals away at their whim.” He explained. 

“It’ll be fun for now, but soon, I’ll be able to just do that directly to your brain.” Luke said mildly. 

A hunted look came over Hershel’s still reddening face as the implications sank in, Luke noticed gleefully. 

“I’m done! What’s the last one?” Luke chirped, watching the man fight to regain his composure. He wondered if maybe he could convince Hershel to do something fun in the office before the man came back.

Instead of answering, the still faintly flushed man pulled open to reveal a small empire of toys. Soft dolls and tiny tinmen smiled up at him from atop piles of costumes and train tracks. 

“Toys!” He cried, while Hershel chuckled at his side. “Oh, they’re lovely.” He had toys at the Cannes house, but it was nothing like the toy room to which he was accustomed. “But there aren’t any stuffed animals…” Luke pouted. The soft dolls were nice, of course, but he missed snuggling into a mountain of stuffed animals.  
“They took a bit more finagling, so I ordered them separately.” Hershel told him, handing over one of the gift boxes.

“Why?” Luke grumbled, as he tore into it. “They aren’t any rarer or more expensive than the rest.” As he pulled away the paper, though, a one-eyed otter stared up at him balefully, a second black marble eye on a thin ribbon tied in a bow around her neck. The air punched out of Luke as his eyes welled up.

“This isn’t Elaine.” He managed, voice wobbly. “She burned up.”

“Are you certain? She looks like Elaine to me.” Hershel told him, passing him another box. It was hard to hold it and Elaine at the same time, but Luke was hardly going to put her down.

It had Georgie in it, still wearing sunglasses. Trevor was in the next. Soon, he had a pile of familiar faces, each of them just as he remembered them, and he threw himself at Hershel to bury his face into the man’s leg. He hadn’t expected the man to remember them like this, to remember Luke’s stories about Elaine still.

“Just one more.” Hershel said softly, picking Luke up. He turned to the first chest and pulled from it a single, final gift box. “I… wasn’t sure if you’d want these, but I do hope you like them.”

Luke shifted Elaine so she sat in Hershel’s arms as he did and warily opened the top. He immediately recognized the teddy family, though they weren’t quite how he remembered them. There were two large ones, now. One looked like the top hat bear but instead wore a small pendant, and the other, much like the bear Luke had once decided would be Randall, wore a small white mask. The medium bear had a pendant, too, instead of a tie, and the dog was tucked in between a handful of puppies.

Luke blinked, trying not to cry. Hershel kissed his cheek, his end of the bond patient and full of love.

“I like these ones much better.” Luke said quietly, wiping his eyes. 

“I’ll have it all delivered to the house, then.” Hershel smiled. “Would you still like to get lunch while we’re out?” 

* * *

The paperwork for the Amnetic lily route finished and ready to be sent to Descole, Hershel closed his eyes and relaxed back into his chair. The radio had long since transitioned from Luke’s program to the soft sounds of music, and he let it flow over him.

Today was productive, he thought, and enjoyable. The meeting, while tumultuous, had ended totally in his favor, and Luke had been happy for most of the day. Hershel smiled, remembering the boy’s bright smile on their walk home.

He’d since dozed off, cradled in a pile of toys on the small office couch. The song playing drifted to silence as the station switched to the next. Hershel stood, grimacing at the way his bones crackled. He was getting old. Randall, too, he thought with some amusement. He wondered how long it would be until the man started begging for youth potions. Hershel planned to warn him off, despite the humor in it. They were actually fairly easy to make, but the side effects were _ghastly_.

Putting his things away quietly, Hershel tried to decide how to spend his evening. He found without the endless mission of Claire on his mind he had more time than he was entirely sure how to fill. With Luke spending so much time at Pesto’s bedside, the problem had only worsened.

The somewhat disastrous rescue mission had by no means warmed his heart to leg work, but it had intensified how out of practice he felt. He thought it would be best, at least until Luke had fully settled into his new powers, to be working actively. Perhaps, a proper robbery, he rolled it over in his mind. He didn’t particularly like the idea of putting Luke in a dangerous situation, but the offer would have to be made. 

In the midst of discarding a plot requiring Randall specifically, he heard a clamor in the hall. He slipped a hand into his jacket, fingers brushing the pistol, but Rosa opened the door.

“Professor, the puppies are here!” She whispered urgently, smiling. Things went well, then. He walked to the couch and knelt. Nudging the boy lightly, he called his name. Luke woke slowly, growling like an angry kitten. 

“My dear, it looks like today has one last surprise for you.” Luke shot him an ugly look, but Hershel could only smile in the face of it. “Pesto has had her puppies.”

“Wh-what?” The boy asked, blinking awake. “Did she really?” He asked with wonder blooming in his face as he sat up. “Can I see them? Is she ok? How many are there?”

“Why don’t you go check?” Hershel asked lightly, but the boy was gone before he finished talking. Rosa met his eyes, giggling behind her scarred hand, and he found himself chuckling, too.

They followed after him, more sedately, but Rosa stood at the door, waving Hershel inside.

“I’ve other things I’ve ought to be doing, Sir. You can keep an eye on them by your lonesome, I think.”

Hershel bowed his head to her as he stepped inside. Luke was curled up under Pesto’s broad head, face streaked once more with tears. He was watching the four squeaking puppies with awe. Stroking them each in turn, he barked little sounds to them.

“Can they speak then?” Hershel asked, keeping his voice low. Luke shook his head. 

“I’m telling them I love them, and I’ll make sure they grow up strong.” Luke said. “Pesto says I’m their big brother, so I think they should hear it, even if they don’t understand yet.” Pesto shifted her head with a tail flicker at the sound of her name. 

“I’m sure you’ll do wonderfully.” Hershel said. Pesto opened her eyes, snuffling tiredly. He dipped his head. “Congratulations on your litter, by the way, my lady.”

Luke yipped something to her. Hershel assumed it was a translation, because she thumped her tail before settling again.

“Do they have names, yet?” Hershel asked, drawn to the domesticity of it. He sat carefully by Luke’s legs, resting a hand on his thin ankles. Luke beamed, shifting to look up at Hershel.

“I’m thinking of naming them after pasta.” The boy admitted, giggling. “I’ll have to talk to Pesto about it first, but what about Gnocchi, for this one?” Luke asked as he petted the chubbiest one. 

“That sounds lovely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pesto approves, and the other puppies are eventually named Ravioli, Spaghetti, and Penne.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading our fic!


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